


my little fortress

by melforbes



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 101,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: Post-S2: Jean copes with her predicament and tries to better her relationships with her son, Jakob, and the other characters she meets along the way.
Relationships: Jean Milburn/Jakob Nyman
Comments: 131
Kudos: 410





	1. Chapter 1

The play had made her too anxious to speak with him. She repeated it over and over again in her mind: _the play made me too anxious to speak with him._ As she drove home, she knew she wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t stalling; no, she’d been too anxious after the play, and all she’d wanted to do was go home and take a hot bath and slip into comfortable clothes, spending the remainder of her evening drinking wine and reading. No, not drinking, not anymore, and remembering why she couldn’t made her too restless to read, so the television went on, and thankfully, _Love Island_ had reruns playing. She could spend months like that, sprawled on her couch and watching reality television and having quick-cooking pasta for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If she wanted to, she could rot and never speak to him again.

But if she ate only pasta, she would be nutritionally deficient in plenty of vitamins and minerals within a week, and she needed a good multi anyway, might as well go to the store. Otis would come home eventually - she texted him twice, got a basic response, managed to hope for the best - and he had his own key; she figured she would return home before he did, so she grabbed her keys, pulled out of the driveway, went to the grocer’s with her hands shaking against the steering wheel. A bottle of vitamins, frozen vegetables, peppermint tea, a rotisserie chicken because she couldn’t be bothered to cook, she could do this right if she tried. The aisles were fluorescent and jarring, but she brought essentials into her basket anyway, bagged them in her same canvas bags that were always in the back of the station wagon for trips like this one, tapped to pay and went out into the parking lot in the dark. Somehow, the stars were brighter than usual, and she stood still and looked up, her groceries hugged to her body, until someone else honked their car horn at her because they wanted her parking space. She left the groceries in the passenger’s seat, then ignored how the car registered the weight as being that of a human body.

She should call him. She should ask if they could talk, just something casual, maybe at the cafe near his house, the one with nice little seats on its outdoor patio. Though he tended to kill house plants, he liked greenery, anything bright and beautiful, and that place was a jungle, calla lilies and vermilions, and she wanted to sit with him and drink tea and ask if he would take another chance on her. This time, she wouldn’t mention anything else, for she didn’t want to tether him to her, and she didn’t even know what she wanted at this point, whether she would keep it or not. From her days casually working with expectant mothers and acting as a dual family planning expert and untrained postpartum doula - she already knew breast and vulva anatomy, so it wasn’t hard to study their functions too, and then apply those findings to real life - she knew the statistics on conception later in life, and she knew that the likelihood of a live birth was too low to be optimistic about, and she didn’t want to explain such things to him, didn’t want to say that this wasn’t a promise for a certain kind of future. No, she wanted him to know that she cared, that she could love him if she was patient, that even she didn’t truly believe she could but that she wanted to, wanted so desperately that she rushed inside with her groceries once she came home, leaving everything on the kitchen counter and heading upstairs, shoes abandoned haphazardly, so that she could cry alone. Hunched over, she sat on her bed, made up of course, for he wasn’t around to pull apart the blankets, leave his side in a pile. She wished he had looked at her boiler. She wished she didn’t still have some of his clothes, ones he told her to keep because he wasn’t going to come back for them, the statement so uncomfortably casual in her memory that she covered her face with her hands, blacked out the world around her. 

It would have been different had she _really_ cheated. It would have been different if she meant him harm. Instead, he left her because he had boundaries. He left her for the same reasons that she encouraged her patients to leave their partners. He left her because she was too challenging to genuinely love. He left her because they’d collided with the ceiling of their relationship, and all along, she’d had the audacity to think it was his fault, that the loud blenders and drills and _snoring_ were reasons why she couldn’t be with him anymore. No, the real problem was that she didn’t want to live with someone, that she didn’t want a boyfriend, that she didn’t want him to love her in the way he always said he would. 

In the end, he left her because she was someone worth leaving, but it was different this time because he hadn’t sought out someone better. No, he’d sought out solitude, and he’d been confident in that choice, no loud fights, no yelling, no turning on the faucet so that he wouldn’t hear her crying in the bathroom. When Remi left her, he deemed her worth leaving because other women could provide for him in better ways than she did; when Jakob left her, he decided that he could never be the one to make her open up, and if she couldn’t open up to him, then he couldn’t love her properly. Somehow - and she reached for the throw blanket at the end of the bed, the house was too cold, she was freezing - she found that the latter hurt far more, for there was something wrong with her. This time, she wasn’t just the arbitrary choice of a bad man; instead, she was the voluntary choice of a good one, but she wasn’t worthy of a good man. Though she wanted to comfort herself, she knew he was right, that she wasn’t capable of that kind of intimacy, that she had such deep capacity to hurt him that he was right to stray. And he had been mature enough not to show her how much it all hurt, had walked away calmly and days later told her that he couldn’t do this anymore, a true gentleman, he was so nice about it, he was kind because he saw it all coming from the start. Now, she knew she wasn’t worthy of someone like him, knew that what she was worth was drunkenly kissing her twat of an ex and not even knowing how to apologize for it. She wasn’t a good person. She wasn’t someone worth loving. 

But she could change that. If she tried to change that, then she _could_ , and maybe her faith was misheld, but she took her journal from the drawer of her bedside table - once, he opened it by accident while looking for a condom, and she slammed the drawer shut so quickly that she feared she’d broken his fingers - and pulled it open to the ribbon-marked page, then began the page with her name written out in capital letters.

_JEAN FRANCES MILBURN_

_Intimacy issues_

_Fear of vulnerability_

_Poor communication skills_

_Failed relationships after divorce_

There, she could start from there. The ink smudged with her tears; she would have to leave it out on the window seat to dry. Downstairs, the front door unlocked and opened, and if she used the eye cream she bought when she was in France for a conference, then maybe her son would never know.

* * *

“It’s been a long time,” she said, trying to mask the embarrassment with a half-joke. There was always something funny underlying how a therapist would put off going to see her own therapist.

Catherine - they were on a first-name basis in sessions, but at conferences, she was Doctor de Marlo, and when Jean called to make an appointment, she asked for Catherine and confused the receptionist - sat across the room from Jean, her notebook open on her lap. Spiral-bound, Jean had never understood those types, but Catherine, unlike other therapists she’d tried, understood the unconventional nature of Jean’s job while also calling bullshit on Jean’s ex-husband, so Jean kept her. However, her last appointment had been long before Otis started sixth form, maybe back when he was thirteen or fourteen, and though Catherine had asked Jean to come in maybe once a season, just a checkup, just a way to see how things were going, Jean canceled her spring appointment and never came back. At that point, she didn’t need therapy anymore, so what was the point? 

“You’ve been busy, I assume,” Catherine deadpanned, not looking for an excuse, not looking to waste time. 

This, of course, was perhaps the reason Jean continued to seek out therapist candidates after she met with Catherine the first time: Catherine absolutely insisted that appointments be productive, and though that productivity was ultimately beneficial, it meant that her clients tended to leave her office looking haunted and exhausted. Though Jean knew how beneficial deep emotional work was for the patient, she hypocritically wanted her therapy appointments to feel like a trip to the spa, not a trip through the darkest parts of her own psyche. _Then schedule a spa visit instead,_ Catherine would say if Jean mentioned such a thing, and maybe this was why Jean had quit therapy altogether, because she already knew what Catherine would say and therefore didn’t need an appointment in order to hear such things anymore. 

“Start wherever you please,” Catherine said, pen poised and ready, expression emotionless. _This is a safe place,_ Jean would have said, but Catherine spoke too sparingly to use such phrases.

So Jean started with Otis beginning sixth form, how she met Jakob because he worked on her bathroom and how Otis and his daughter started dating; then, she went into the deeper, more private things, how he left change everywhere, how he took such long showers, how he insisted on reciprocating to the point that she faked it once, how she could tell he knew she had and went to bed praying that he wouldn’t bring it up in the morning. She hated that he liked loud breakfast foods. She hated that he would cook for his daughters every night but rarely for her. She hated that he liked to cuddle in the morning, that he would wrap his arms around her when her alarm went off, that he would pull her closer if she tried to wiggle away. She’d wanted him to make her pancakes in the morning. She’d wanted him to sand and polish beautiful wooden bowls for her, then make big salads in them and serve them on the porch. She’d wanted to watch a movie with him after dinner one evening, then pretend to fall asleep so that he would carry her upstairs to bed.

She was staring down at her lap, moving one of her bracelets back and forth on her wrist, when she reached the last word she could manage to speak. When she looked up at Catherine, she found Catherine’s pen still, nothing written down in the notebook.

“Oh,” Jean added, her voice wavering as she spoke, “and I’m pregnant.”

Catherine went to speak but then paused, trying to find words. 

“Are you sure?” she asked, tone genuinely skeptical. _Are you_ really _sure?_

“I went to see my doctor,” Jean said, “because I had some chest pains. I thought it might be perimenopause. She ran tests.”

“So you’re sure.”

“As sure as I think I can be.”

“Does he know?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Will you tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,” Catherine gave, then wrote a sentence in her notebook. “What would you like from me, then?”

 _I’d like you to tell me what to do,_ Jean thought, but she couldn’t say that, not here, not to Catherine.

“I would like to know why I should or shouldn’t tell him,” she said, weighing her words, “and I’d like to know how I could show him that I care about him.”

“How have you showed him how you feel in the past?”

The questions rolled out in an uncomfortable succession: Jean was bad at showing affection, Jean was bad at compromise, and Jean tended to believe she wanted one thing while saying she wanted another drastically different one. Catherine offered her a glass of water; Jean said yes, actually, that would be nice, for she had a headache brewing, she must be dehydrated, she shouldn’t be dehydrated. Did she take her vitamin this morning? Yes, she did, she took it with a glass of water right before she brushed her teeth. Then, she had plain yogurt with granola for breakfast, and when she thought about adding something sweeter into the mix, she remembered the blueberries he’d picked from his garden and brought to her home in freezer bags, saving them for smoothies. He could make bowls like they did at those specialty organic restaurants, the ones young women loved to take pictures of. He would scatter hemp hearts - her favorite - and cacao nibs - his favorite - at different corners of the bowl, then pour some cold raspberries on top and slip in a spoon. When the morning was warm enough, they would sit on her porch and eat together, watching as the local team sculled down the river. 

The truth was that she never really showed him how she felt, and she hadn’t done so because she hadn’t wanted to. Though she could call it fear, she didn’t think fear was an apt term, for there was nothing frightening about cuddling with her partner in the morning right after her alarm sounded, nothing frightening about calling him her partner at all. Looking back, she could see all of the ways she could’ve done better, but her challenge was twofold: though she could prove to him that she was worth loving, that she could love him fully if he gave her another chance, that she could do better if she put the time and work in, she would never be able to do so if he didn’t want her to. She might have to leave her mistakes unrepented. She might need to stay a closed-off, invulnerable woman in his memory.

“Will you tell him you love him?” Catherine asked. “Not now, but eventually?”

“I don’t love him,” Jean said, shaking her head. 

She’d finished the glass of water, was running her forefinger around his smooth, cold rim. Looking down at the notebook, Catherine brought her own finger to a specific inked line on the page.

“You said earlier that you believed you couldn’t show him that you loved him,” she said.

“I meant romantic love,” Jean said. “Like holding hands in public. Or kissing in front of others.”

“But haven’t you done such things with people you didn’t love?”

“I don’t-”

“I’m sure you’ve kissed other men in front of your son.”

“Yes, but-”

“And would you have described kissing them as being acts of love?”

“Yes, in a sense, but…”

She wasn’t going to win this argument, and thankfully, the hour was almost up, so she asked Catherine if she could make an appointment for next week, then left in an uncomfortable hurry, wanting to go home, wanting to sit on the couch and not think. On the way out, she saw Catherine’s next patient, one who stared at Jean incredulously, frightened that _that_ would happen inside this woman’s office, and Jean thought _piss off_ as she walked out the door.

* * *

Three simple words: _Can we talk?_ She could call him, say them, and leave that message on his answering machine. _Hello, this is Jean. I was wondering if we could talk. Hello, this is Jean Milburn speaking. I was wondering if I could take you out for coffee sometime soon, just to talk. No pressure. I’ll buy. Hello, this is Jean Milburn, who is pregnant with your child and who is afraid to admit that she almost cries whenever she finds your pocket change somewhere. Hello, this is Jean, and I miss you so much that it makes my chest hurt, but if I were to tell you that, I’m afraid that you’d feel you needed to love me out of obligation. Hello, this is Jean Milburn, and I would like for you to look at my boiler, if you don’t mind._

If she called between twelve and twelve-thirty, he would be taking lunch, not bothering to answer his phone unless the designated ringtone for his daughters - “The Sweet Escape” by Gwen Stefani, the same song from when Ola first got a cell phone and insisted upon making her ringtone on her dad’s phone _cool_ \- sounded, so she waited until then, clutching her cell phone in her hands, trying to think of what to say. Finally, she gave in and found her journal again, turning to the same page that listed all of her faults and writing down exactly what she would say, word for word, beat for beat. Though she still needed to work up the nerve to call him, at least when she managed to make the call she would have something to say.

For her last two patients of the day, she stared down at her notes too often, and sometimes, she needed them to repeat what they were saying, needed to hear all over again the trials and tribulations of attempting bondage with a partner who didn’t understand the reasoning behind such a thing. Of course she preached about communication. Of course she told them that it was important to have boundaries. Of course she’d turned into a hypocrite, having all the knowledge she could possibly need in order to maintain a healthy relationship and not listening to any of her training nonetheless. By the time her last patient left, she was growing nauseous, the feeling disconcertingly familiar, her first three months with Otis, not morning sickness but a constant kind of nausea, an eternal day four of a stomach flu. At least she’d picked up peppermint tea. At least, while everything around her was falling apart, she’d managed to take care of herself.

She needed to put the kettle on. Where was the kettle? She opened the cabinet, but the kettle wasn’t there. Had Otis used it? No, Otis rarely had hot drinks in the morning, or if he had them, he only drank them because someone else had done the boiling and brewing. Then, she remembered, and when she opened the door to the side room, she winced, finding the kettle right on the pot rack. He even finished the wood for her. He even made the thing blend in as if it had always been a part of her own home.

“I’m not going to cry,” she said to herself as she took the kettle from the rack, as she walked to the sink and filled the kettle with water. “I’m not going to cry. I am not going to cry.”

And she lit the stove without crying - he never made her pancakes, but then again, she never asked - and she put the kettle on without crying - she never met his youngest daughter, for she never stayed over in his home, never ventured outside of her own space - and she took peppermint tea bags out of their tin without crying - he chipped this mug, right around the rim, and he apologized profusely, and though at first she’d been uncomfortable with the little bit of destruction, now she looked at it and remembered that morning, a warm but breezy day, he opened all of the windows downstairs and asked if she wanted to take a walk together before her first client came, before he left for work, and she told him no because she was nervous about wearing exercise clothes around him, because she didn’t want him to feel how sweaty her hands could get, because she really didn’t want to talk. But she let him kiss her and then held onto his arm for a beat too long to show him that she cared, and he couldn’t tell that anything was amiss. 

When the kettle hissed, she took it off the stove, poured hot water over her teabag, and only once she was holding a warm mug did she dare to look at her phone again, and there, she found two text messages, both from him, one saying that he was free tomorrow in the afternoon and another asking if she was alright.

 _I’m fine,_ she texted back even though she felt as if she were about to be sick. _I’ll see you then._

* * *

As she drove to his home - though she wrote down her voicemail verbatim, she forgot to ask for a public place as a spot to meet - she made the decision not to tell him about the pregnancy. Because she knew the odds and outcomes of a high-risk pregnancy at her age, she didn’t think it would be respectful to tell him and passively ask him to be a father again, for the chances that either of them would hold a baby in the end were slim, and she couldn’t bear to ruin things more. No, she would tell him how she felt, would say that she had started seeing her therapist again, and would apologize in a way that mattered this time. Then, if he wanted to let her have another chance, he would do so because he wanted who she was now, even if she planned on changing nonetheless. Then, he would make a decision based on her, not on some arbitrary and likely fictional future.

But when she parked out front of his home, she wanted so badly for him to rush out to her and just _know,_ take her in his arms and tell her that he would do anything for her, tell her that he forgives her, let her know that he missed her too. She wanted to come inside for tea and pastries and let him rub her back as she cried in relief, crying in front of him this time, actually able to show him how she felt. She wanted to kiss him slowly because this time she didn’t want sex but instead wanted his company. And maybe Catherine was right; maybe she did love him, in whatever way she could love someone she didn’t know particularly well, in a way that reflected how he made her laugh in bed and the way he made her blush when he kissed her before leaving for work. And maybe they could build a life together on that emotion alone.

She went to knock but then noticed the bell, rang that instead; afterward, she clasped her hands and waited uncomfortably, wishing she’d written down exactly what she wanted to say, wishing she could go home and sit on the couch and watch more _Love Island_ even though she thought that Kendra was too uptight and that Mitchell wasn’t as attractive as he believed himself to be. When Jakob opened the front door, she flinched, then wondered, _why did I wear this today?_ A wrap blouse with a bit too plunging of a neckline, long sleeves but plenty of chest exposed, loose silk trousers that were meant to be capris but that perfectly aligned with her ankles. Though she knew not to sweat in silk, she was already sweating, and she doubted she would be able to stop.

“Hi,” he said, then beckoned her in so casually, as if the last time she’d come into his house hadn’t been while trying to rip off his shirt, as if they were simple friends who came over _to talk_ often. And everything was the same too, except that something aromatic was cooking, onions and scallions and warmth, something mouthwatering for dinner.

“It smells amazing in here,” she said as she toed off her shoes in the entryway - one of his biggest pet peeves, though he hadn’t voice it for a long time, was wearing shoes in his own home - and looked up at him, trying to read his expression, trying to gauge what she should say. “What are you making?”

“Pho,” he said. “Whole chicken. Takes hours.”

He sat down on the couch, tapped the other side, invited her to join him. His hair was messy in the way it always was after work, too much leaning down, she used to stand on tiptoe and push the little strands behind his ears and then watch them fall forward again. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked casually, a common courtesy. “There’s plenty to go around.”

“That’s alright,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

When she dressed this morning, she refused to wear bracelets or rings, didn’t want to fidget with such things while talking to him, so now she stared down at her hands, trying not to pick at her nails.

“How have you been doing?” Jakob asked, draping one arm over the back of the couch but not touching her, a chaste distance left between them. 

Since they’d broken it, he’d fixed the coffee-table and set it back in front of the couch, but fewer tchotchkes were on it, just yesterday’s newspaper and a frayed cookbook in Vietnamese with inked translations open to a page flaunting a big bowl of soup. He’d hung framed photographs of his family around the living room, Ola and his other daughter as little girls, a Christmas card picture including him and his wife, more recent school portraits. The armchairs, the woodstove, the invoices on his desk, his home looked so lived-in; she could imagine the girls sitting cross-legged on this couch and doing their homework together, could imagine Jakob calling them over for dinner, could imagine them laughing over homemade scones before school started and then kissing their father goodbye on opposite sides of his face before heading out for the day. 

After Remi left, she took over his office and made it her own - when they first moved into the house, he gave her a desk in the corner, and because he didn’t take his big desk when he left, she sold it for more than it was worth and bought a nicer one for herself - and she put up new wallpaper and changed the duvet, but she never really made her home a _family home._ For the most part, childish things stayed in Otis’s room, his shelves first housing picture books and then housing records, his bike parked in its one specific spot and his gaming console never plugged in to the downstairs television. Should she have asked him what he wanted their home to look like? But he liked her mugs, liked her silly little spoons and the way she kept the kitchen half-organized, and nowadays any books he purchased for school or for pleasure migrated to the shelves downstairs, mingling with her own reading. Though she had her doubts, she figured that she’d done enough to make a home, even if her version didn’t involve cheek-kisses before school and family dinners and instead involved basic breakfasts on the porch and ordering in.

“I’m fine,” she said, then shook herself of the statement, took a deep breath. “No, I’m not fine. The point of coming here today was to tell you that I’m not fine.”

“Okay,” he said, trying to gauge what that meant.

“I don’t know where to begin,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s so much I want to tell you.”

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “Start small.”

“I miss you.”

And her voice wavered, and she dug her nails into her thighs, trying to keep herself from crying. Of course everything was going to make her cry. In her first trimester with Otis, she’d had to turn the television off if a commercial for an animal rescue shelter came on, then would pace the house until she felt the sadness dissipate. Back then, Remi made fun of her by calling her a time bomb of some kind, she couldn’t remember his exact words. At least now she could blame her nausea on how anxious she felt.

“I know I’ve done wrong by you,” she said, weighing her words, speaking slowly in order not to falter. “I know that I’ve hurt you, and not just because I kissed my ex-husband. I hurt you because I only ever pushed you away. I hurt you because I told you I was ready even though deep down I knew I wasn’t. And I’m sorry for that, truly sorry.”

As he tried to find words, she planned what she should say next. First, she would mention the therapy, for that was objectively good in nature; if she was in therapy, then that meant that they still had a chance at making a life together. Second, she would tell him that she did want to try again and that this time she wanted the intimacy he desired, that she knew she would struggle with such a thing but that she wanted it nonetheless. Did it matter if she was ready or not, when there was a man willing to love her in that way? Did it matter if she was scared when such a wonderful and rare opportunity had presented itself to her?

“You were so blank when you last came to see me,” he said, unsure of what she meant. “You left so easily. I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I did want you, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought that it would be easier if I acted as if none of it mattered. But it _did_ matter, Jakob. I was wrong to act like that. I wish I hadn’t.”

“Does it still matter to you?”

“Yes,” she huffed, “of course it does.”

“It does?”

And then she realized what she’d said and brought her head into her hands, said, “I need a moment.”

Gently, he touched her shoulder, rubbed his thumb along the bone there in order to ground her, then stood, walked away, and she could hear him lifting a stove pot in the kitchen, stirring soup. Now, the aroma of his dinner wafted throughout the house again, and she really wanted to stay for dinner. She wanted him to make her a bowl of soup and tell her that she was doing alright. 

And maybe she was wrong for wanting to be independent. Maybe it was stronger to come to this man’s home and try not to cry while he stirred soup for his family’s dinner. When she slept alone and woke to find herself staring at the change left on his bedside table, that wasn’t strong, and it wasn’t strong to spend so much time alone that she didn’t have many friends anymore, and it wasn’t strong to fear that Maureen Groff would invite her somewhere and then wonder whether or not she could manage to maintain that friendship. What was strong was telling someone how she really felt, rekindling the relationships she’d lost because she was too caught up in her own dramas to pay attention to those of others, being more involved with her son, showing him through her own guiding examples that telling the truth and being compassionately vulnerable were two of the best things a person could do. Being strong was feeling the embarrassment and shame of having done wrong, then using those emotions to do better next time. 

And here she was, sitting on Jakob’s couch with her head in her hands, breathing deeply, deciding what to say next. This was her first step.

When he returned to the couch, she took her hands away, pushed her hair behind her ears, looked at him uncomfortably. Her heart was going to be bare to him, and though her instincts insisted that he would hurt her once he saw who she really was, she knew in her logical mind that he would never choose to hurt her. And maybe he knew deep down that, despite all of her scars from her marriage, despite her neuroses and discomforts and fears, she never meant to hurt him either.

“I want to try again,” she said, staring at her lap, unable to look him in the eye as she spoke. “I really do. And I know that I’ve given you no reason to believe that I’ll be any better this time, but I went back to my therapist, and…”

This time, she couldn’t stop herself from crying, and she doubted that she could start speaking again if she stopped now, so she pressed on, forced out her words.

“And I want to be better,” she said, brushing the tears off of her cheeks. “I want the kind of intimacy that you need. And I’m afraid, I’m afraid of so many things, and none of those things are things worth being afraid of. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Or, I know what’s wrong with me, but I’m scared of it, and I’m scared to face it, but I _want_ to face it because if I don’t then I hurt people like you. And I don’t want to hurt others anymore.”

He moved to her closer on the couch, then brought his thumb to her cheek; she closed her eyes as he dried her tears, and when he pulled her into his arms, she clung close to him, the arms she’d tried so hard to forget, the feeling of being held by someone big and kind and warm. With her face pressed against his shirt, she cried there, let him rub her back, pushed away the incessant nausea and the way her hands shook so that she could feel this moment in its almost-entirety. She wasn’t ready to feel everything yet, but she could focus on the press of his body against hers, the way he told her that it was okay and that they were okay, the way he made her feel so safe even though she still had her many fears. 

After she stopped crying, he still held her, still rubbed her back, and she wished she could elongate the moment, one in which anything was possible, one in which he could love her and she could love him, one filled with possibility and the thought of _more_. But then, the front door opened, and Jakob pulled away from her quickly, sat back on the other side of the couch, tried to regain his composure.

“Hey, Dad,” Ola said from the doorway, hanging up the van’s keys on their proper hook. 

Dropping her backpack next to the shoe tray and slipping out of her white high-tops, the younger daughter echoed the same two words, then went straight for the staircase before Jean could really look at her. 

“Hello!” Jakob called back awkwardly as Ola went into the kitchen, lifted the top off of the pot of soup, stood on tiptoe as she stirred the pot.

“How long until this is done?” Ola asked, looking over to the couch.

Then, she noticed that Jean was sitting alongside her father, and she perked up in that very Ola way, rocking up onto her toes, half-smiling and looking pleased.

“Hey, Jean,” she said. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“Yes,” Jean said, for she didn’t think that saying no would be a good idea, for Ola was hard to say no to.

“Great!” Ola said, hopping on her heels again and then facing her father. “I’m going to get started on my homework. Call me down when it’s ready?”

“Yes,” Jakob said, still shaken from the sudden interruption but managing to nod in confirmation nonetheless.

As Ola went upstairs, Jakob turned back to Jean, offered a quiet apology that Jean brushed off. She asked where his bathroom was - why didn’t she know where his bathroom was? - and he told her that it was back past the stairs, so she excused herself for a moment, went inside and locked the door and stared at herself in the mirror, bracing herself against the sink. Of course her eyes were red; she doubted she could remedy that before dinner, but at least she could run cold water over her hands, use a piece of toilet paper to dab at her failing eye makeup, turn herself into someone more presentable. And though the soup smelled so good, and though she felt her toes curl at how happy Ola had been to see her, she wanted to go home and hide, not stay with his family for a meal no matter how delectable. Now that she’d said what was on her mind, she felt her anxiousness start to dissipate, for she’d given her future over to someone else, was no longer in control of this one aspect of it; she wanted to stay on her couch and eat popcorn and watch television shows that were a waste of her time, for she’d put herself out there, and the vulnerability hangover was weighing on her. 

And she was nauseous enough without the anxiety of their conversation, but she thought it would be okay to ask him to make her a cup of tea. He would be kind about that, wouldn’t he? And she figured he had mint tea, maybe ginger or chamomile, something soothing. She ran her fingers under the cold water, then pressed them to her cheeks, her eyes, her forehead. Tonight, she would eat soup with Jakob and his daughters, and she would be alright until she could leave. What she did on her own time was only her business, but for now, she would be presentable and kind, would ask Ola about school and would finally be introduced to his younger daughter, would say she was a friend of Jakob’s and wouldn’t say anything about the pregnancy, not now, not today. She could manage dinner. She could be good and kind for dinner.

Coming back into the living room, she asked him if he could make her a cup of tea, but he’d already put the kettle on after she left, four mismatched mugs waiting on the counter; he went to the pile of tea tins on his kitchen counter and asked, _which kind?_

* * *

His younger daughter was named Alma, and she liked pearl hairpins, winged eyeliner, and music by Alessia Cara. Her father refused to let her create an Instagram account - Jean wasn’t sure want an _Instagram_ was - and she thought that was _really not cool, Papa. Everyone else has one. And you don’t even have a good reason why you think I shouldn’t make one._ Though Alma was intelligent enough to be in upper-level classes in her school, smart and accomplished at fourteen years old, she still held an undercurrent of girlishness in how she had enamel pins from the movie _Frozen_ on her backpack, how she wore four fraying friendship bracelets on her wrist. She managed to sell Jean a box of mint cookies from her Girl Explorers troop before dinner was even served.

“Oh, and your library books are overdue,” Alma told the table as she ran her chopsticks through her big bowl of soup. “Both of you. And you owe fees.”

“Really?” Ola said, let-down. “If you’d paid them, I would’ve given you the money afterward.”

“Yeah, but it’s the _principle_ of it,” Alma said, making Jean smile.

Jakob used big ramen-style bowls to serve the soup, deep and painted in a floral blue on the sides, and the whole family had personalized wooden chopsticks, their names engraved in the wood, while Jean held a pair of takeaway bamboo ones. Outside, the sun had set, and because the soup had started to warm the house up too, they’d opened the windows, let some of the cold air in. When Jakob dished out soup, he added extra noodles for Ola because he knew she liked her pho that way, and he brought blanched beansprouts, cut limes, and fresh basil to the table as garnish, the onions and cilantro delicately placed at the rim of each bowl. Though she’d watched him make plenty of smoothie bowls, she still was dumbfounded by the gentle way that he dangled cilantro over the top of a soup bowl, making the presentation perfect, thinking through _MasterChef_ episodes and remembering every last critique. After hours of parboiling chicken and cooking the thing whole for soup, he still conscientiously added garnish so that the three women he cooked for - two intentionally, one not - would love what he made. Before she could think through how that made her feel, she was being served, so the conversation moved on as she tasted the broth, as she closed her eyes in pleasure, as she waited for someone more interesting than she was to start a conversation.

First, they went for the easy questions - how was your day, how was school, did you learn anything new - and then Ola asked if Lily could come over this weekend, and Jean gave her a knowing look, one Ola returned with a smile. So the girl she liked had never really been repulsed by her in the end. Though Jean still felt wary, the vulnerability still uncomfortable, she let a little bit of hope creep in, just in case.

And the Nymans were liberal with their leftovers, so Jakob ladled out a whole container of soup and noodles for Jean to take home, then found another container and filled that one too. When she mentioned that she liked his ladle, one with little feet at the base and a handle that looked like a head and made the shape of a dinosaur, Ola said that she and her sister had gotten him the ladle for Christmas last year, and Jakob beamed with fatherly pride. 

“Really, this is too much,” Jean said as Jakob taped down the lids on the two containers. “I can’t take all of your soup.”

“There’s plenty more,” Jakob gave while Ola hoisted the empty soup pot into the sink, started on the dishes. “We’ll never finish it on our own.”

“Especially not if you don’t polish off all the ice cream sandwiches,” Ola called over to her father. “There’s no freezer space. It’s ridiculous.”

Alma proceeded to open the freezer, where three boxes of ice cream sandwiches crowded bags of frozen berries and trayed leftovers. Taking a sandwich out of the one open box, Alma asked Ola, “Want one?”

“Yeah, duh,” Ola said, so she dried her hands on a dishtowel, then caught the wrapped dessert when her sister threw it over. 

“Papa?” Alma asked, holding up another sandwich. “Jean?”

“Sure, why not,” Jean said, nearly dropping the dessert after she caught it. Somehow, her hands had stopped shaking. 

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Jean unwrapped the ice cream sandwich, the chocolate cookies sticking to her fingers. She couldn’t remember the last time she had one of these, not since one of the summers when Otis was little, maybe even back before Remi left. In those days, she kept popsicles and other summer treats in the freezer for when clients came in and Remi refused to mind their child. Sometimes, if she had the chance, she would gather Otis up and have them make homemade popsicles together, mixing fresh berries and fruit juices together and pouring the mixture into moulds. Maybe they could find a similar activity to share nowadays. Maybe they could find a nice cycling trail and ride on it together. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ridden her bicycle.

“I haven’t had one of these in forever,” Jean said, taking her first bite.

“Dad is _obsessed,_ ” Ola said as she brought a brush into the edges of the soup pot. “We had them once on a Girl Explorers camping trip years ago, and since then, Dad’s craved them.”

Edging up to Jakob, who delicately removed the packaging as if he were about to indulge in a great feast, Jean said, “I never knew that about you.”

“I am a man of mystery,” Jakob deadpanned, then licked the last bits of chocolate at the edge of the wrapper. 

* * *

She stacked the two containers on top of each other as she walked out to her car, Jakob on her heels. Upstairs, the girls were working on their homework - they shared a room for such things, alternating whose bed they sat on, she’d always intended for Otis to have a sibling but had, in light of his early childhood, thought that having another child would be a mistake - and she could see the light on upstairs, Alma’s room rather than Ola’s, fairy lights casting a pink glow over the garden below. Jean had parked poorly in her haste upon arriving, and because she’d left her cell phone in the car, she figured that Otis must’ve called her countless times to ask half-jokingly if he’d been orphaned. At least she was bringing home leftovers.

“I don’t want to push too hard,” Jakob said, his hands stuck in his pockets as she placed the two containers on the hood of the car, unlocked the door, “but I’m not sure what you want, Jean.”

She stilled, her hand stuck on the handle of the car door. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I…”

Closing her eyes, she thought, _I could tell him. I’ve already said so much. It would be so easy to tell him._

“There’s something I should tell you,” she said uncomfortably, looking back to him, “but I’m afraid.”

He shifted, taking his hands out of his pockets, his brow furrowed with concern. She wished she could be worthy of such concern, then wished she never could be, for it was safer to be unloved, or was it not? Was it safe to call herself _independent_ when in reality she was guarded and lonely? And couldn’t she be independent and in a relationship simultaneously? How could she preach about _being your own person_ and not letting a partner take over one’s life while being unable to do such things in her own life?

“I should preface this,” she continued, “by saying that I don’t expect anything from you. At this point I don’t even know what choice _I_ want to make, and in the end, that choice would be mine and mine alone, and I wouldn’t intend to...I don’t know, change you because of it. I don’t want you to feel that I’m asking for something because of this. And I didn’t want to tell you because I feared you would see this as my only reason for caring about you, which it isn’t, not in the least.”

“Okay,” he said, leaning against her car, trying to seem casual even though she could sense his nervousness.

“I’m sorry,” she said, then shut her eyes tightly, the wrong thing to say. “I don’t mean...I shouldn’t apologize. I don’t know why I’m apologizing.”

“It’s okay, Jean.”

“I’m pregnant.” Before Jakob could say anything else, she quickly tried to come up with a speech that covered all of the important points, managed, “And I know it’s impossible, and I didn’t expect it either and only found out about it by accident. I had my doctor redraw the labs. I couldn’t be more sure if I tried. And I know it’s important that I tell you because it means that you need to talk to your doctor as well, but I didn’t want to say anything for fear that it would negate what I’ve said about how I feel. And how I feel about you is not a result of this, not at all.”

She took a deep breath, then met his gaze, feeling bare with how he looked at her, feeling overwhelmed and too warm and nauseous and shaky, and upstairs, the pink lights glowed on as the girls studied, and she wondered if her son was doing his own homework in his own bedroom upstairs, listening to Joy Division and trying to understand calculus.

“I want you in my life, Jakob,” she said, thankful that she couldn’t cry anymore, not today, “and I don’t know what that looks like. I doubt it’s my choice what it looks like either. And I don’t know what to say without sounding gross or manipulative or like I’m trying to rope you into something major. But I’m heartbroken over what I’ve done to you, and I can’t leave things like that, no matter what the future holds.”

Pulling open her car door, she tried to shrug off the conversation, but the soup was still on the hood of her car, and she’d buzzed the box of Alma’s mint cookies out to the passenger’s seat earlier, and now she had three hearts she couldn’t bear to break, not just one. 

“Is there any chance,” Jakob said, voice level, too level, she tensed at the way he sounded, “that it could be your ex-husband’s and not mine?”

“No, absolutely not,” she said, “no chance,” then took the soup and set it down on the passenger’s seat, hesitated before buckling the containers in so that they wouldn’t spill.

“Okay,” he managed, the pause between them uncomfortable as she looked at her phone, found no new messages. Maybe Otis was out. “I need some time to think.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, then turned the key in the ignition, gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to ground herself. 

“Do you have any appointments set up?”

“Yes,” she gave, “on Friday at two.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding absentmindedly. “Yeah, okay.”

She closed the car door as a way to say goodbye, then put the car in reverse and made sure not to look at him while she drove away from his home. Was one of her headlights out? The woods around her were too dark. She pressed the high beams on and promised herself that she wouldn’t look in the rear views, then looked in the rear views to find him standing stunned in the same spot. 

In the passenger’s seat, the soup sloshed as she drove over gravel but never spilled.

* * *

“I was wondering where you were,” Otis said from the couch when she returned home. “Night out?”

“Not exactly.” She held up the soup containers and the box of cookies as if they were trophies. “I brought you back some, at least.”

Furrowing his brow, he asked, “Grocery store?”

“I was roped into dinner at the Nyman household.”

He quirked a smile at that, stretched his arms out over the back of the couch. “Do tell.”

“Do you want some before I put it away? It’s chicken soup. It’s really good.”

“Already ate.”

She shook the box in the air. “Cookie?”

“I didn’t realize Ola was in Girl Explorers.”

“Her younger sister is.”

“Yeah, bring them over.”

So she left the soup containers in the fridge and peeled open the cookie box as she walked into the living room, as she sat down alongside him on the couch. She handed him one first, then held her cookie up to his for a kind of toast.

“What brought you to the Nyman household?” he asked.

She exhaled, not wanting to talk about it, and gave, “Various things. And then they wanted me to stay for dinner.”

“Anything I should know about?”

She gave him a look, so he rolled his eyes, clarified, “Will I be finding Jakob’s pants all over the house again?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, then went for another cookie, not caring that she’d already had dessert. _Eating for two,_ she chided in her head, then wished she could beat that same head against a wall.

“Are we okay now, Mum?”

She furrowed her brow, asked, “Okay about what?”

“The clinic at school,” he gave, his body language shifting. Vulnerability, she recognized it in an instant, and she softened as he folded his hands in his lap. Maybe she hadn’t messed up as badly as she’d assumed. “The...sex clinic.”

Though she would be lying if she said she wasn’t angry anymore, she hadn’t thought of Otis’s escapades at school for hours, and in light of everything else that seemed to be going wrong, she found that she didn’t have the energy at the moment to care. However, she knew that her opinion was important to him, so she weighed her words, tried to decide how they could best move forward.

“I’m still upset about it,” she said carefully, “and I don’t know how it is that you can make amends.”

“They haven’t taken disciplinary action at school,” Otis said. “I know they should, but with Principal Groff gone, it seems everyone is preoccupied right now.”

“Then you have an opportunity,” she said, nodding once. “If you can make amends on your own terms, then you can define your own version of forgiveness.”

“Save that line for one of your books,” he said, half-laughing, still uncomfortable but warming up. “What do you mean, _define your own?_ ”

“Well,” she said, cataloging through her degrees, trying to find the right one for such a question, “if you feel guilty about, say, invoicing, then you could pay everyone back. That’s a start.”

“I could,” he said, nodding, grimacing at losing the money but willing nonetheless, “but I’m afraid of the repercussions it would have for someone else.”

“Someone who gave you money?”

“Someone who...joined me.”

“And did these things with you?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize you weren’t in it alone.”

“She scheduled people, so to speak. And she took half the cut.”

“You could have her pay everyone back as well.”

“She needs the money a lot more than I do, Mum,” he said. “For me, it was...for once, I had a chance to help people. The money wasn’t even my idea. And maybe I just fueled my own ego, but the only reason it lasted so long was that people _needed_ my help. Most of the time, they just weren’t taught what they needed to know, or they were embarrassed about communicating with someone else. I felt as if I was doing something worthwhile. I don’t know how to keep the good without undoing all of it. And I don’t want her to suffer so that I can make a grand gesture for forgiveness.”

Nodding to him, she said, “I think we all grapple with those kinds of decisions.”

He took another cookie and was quiet for a while. 

“You could try talking to her,” Jean offered, looking down at one of the two sleeves of cookies in the box and realizing that they’d already made it through half a sleeve. She should’ve bought two boxes, but then again, Jakob had scolded Alma for bringing up cookie sales even though Jean had absolutely been ready to take out her wallet and buy a box. “See if you both can make amends in your own ways.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Mum.”

She turned up her palms, gave, “I’ve got all night.”

Sighing, he shook his head, stared down at his lap.

“It’s hard to be honest,” he said, “especially when you care a lot about what you’re being honest about. But then again, you reach a point when it hurts too much _not_ to tell the truth, so you say it, and then you’re left with this aftermath in which you have so many questions but no courage to ask them. And that’s just your own version of events. It’s different for everyone involved, and you have to reconcile with those differences. Does that ever get easier?”

She laughed and shook her head. “It really doesn’t.”

“Well,” he said, laughing humorlessly, shaking his head.

And they finished the first sleeve of cookies, and she brought the box into the kitchen cupboard, not looking at the pan shelf as she walked by, her son stretching out in the living room while she decided between the high-up pasta shelf she had to stand on tiptoe to reach or the eye-level one that her son wouldn’t immediately notice upon opening the pantry. She went for the lower shelf because life was hard nowadays, then went to head upstairs when her son called out to her from the couch. 

“Thank you for talking with me,” he said, nodding in confirmation. “Thank you for the advice.”

She leaned against the bannister and smiled, said, “Anytime, darling.”

And once she was dressed for bed, night cream on her face, teeth brushed, she opened her journal back up, found the now-dry page featuring her worst qualities. Though she couldn’t say that she no longer had those poor qualities, she opened to a new page and began the same way she had with the first, but this time, she tried to think of what she’d done right today, of what she could congratulate herself for. She knew from her work that it was important to remember that no person was wholly good or bad; instead, she needed to see the facets of herself, congratulate herself for doing things that went against the qualities she wished she didn’t have. And even if she found that looking back on the day made her cringe, she knew that she’d at least done _something,_ had taken her first steps and had made her first efforts toward resolution. That, she promised herself, was worthwhile in the end.

_JEAN FRANCES MILBURN_

_Communicated well with son_

_Shared a lovely dinner_

_Told the truth_

_Let go of expectations_

She left her journal on top of his spare change on the bedside table and turned out the lights.


	2. Chapter 2

Meredith worked in family therapy and had gone to university with Jean, the two of them studying for psychology exams together, Meredith supplying the blank flashcards and pens while Jean supplied the weed. At their university, the library had private study rooms to reserve, complete with a chalkboard and a conference-style table, so they would sprawl out, textbooks open, papers askew, marking on the board whatever topics were most pertinent. Because Jean had led on - on purpose, she wouldn’t use such terminology otherwise - one of the guys who worked in library circulation, she knew the passcode for the buildings, the numbers that would let people in or out very late at night, so she and Meredith would stick around until one, maybe two in the morning, sometimes even bringing their duvets and making a night out of it. _It’s too far back to my flat,_ Jean would say as she unfurled her nightly accommodations, tried to think of a nearby bathroom in which she could brush her teeth. _I don’t think anyone will mind if I sleep on the floor._

And, best of all, these private study rooms had little balconies. If Jean could remember correctly, these rooms were once graduate student offices, so they were intended to be higher caliber than simply a place for undergraduates to study. Once it was dark enough to see stars, to have the world outside feel shockingly quiet in wake of the night sky, Jean and Meredith would walk out onto the slender balcony, lean against its high walls, and smoke. Jean had a good windproof lighter, but it was always Meredith who did the lighting. One flick, the burning tip of a joint, a pass to the other woman. Jean had always liked that, regardless of whether or not she was exhaling smoke, she could still see her breath in those cold hours of the night.

“You’re not really into this stuff, are you,” Meredith said knowingly while Jean inhaled.

Glancing to Meredith, Jean saw how the woman leaned against the balcony’s wall, how she looked out at the rest of the now-dark buildings with a strange aloofness. 

“I’m _really_ into this stuff,” Jean gave flatly as she exhaled. “Thought that would be obvious.”

“No, no,” Meredith corrected, “the class stuff. Psychology, in general.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“Well.” Meredith paused as if she were about to speak again but then didn’t speak.

It was Meredith’s turn for a puff, so Jean passed the joint, folded her arms against the banister. Someday, she swore she was going to take an astronomy book out here onto one of these balconies and determine exactly which constellations she could see. She longed for a day when she could look up at the sky, see a pattern of stars, and think, _home._

“I do like psychology,” Jean gave, looking up and away from Meredith. “I just...dislike bureaucracy. Forced learning. I don’t like our grading system.”

“It’s the same as everywhere else,” Meredith huffed.

“And is that supposed to mean it’s right?”

Meredith rolled her eyes as she passed the joint back.

“See,” Meredith said, “the way I look at it is that if you like people, you go into anthropology. If you like social order, you go into sociology. If you like controlling others, you study politics. Psychology is for those types who are willing to forego attachment in favor of nine-to-five employment. Psychology is for people who can’t commit to passion.”

“And you think I can commit to passion?”

“I think you’re smarter than you act,” Meredith gave as Jean took a hit, “and you’re in a discipline much too rigid for your personality. It’s better to get out while you’re still far from graduating.”

 _You should meet my mother,_ Jean thought. _You two would get along well._

“For example,” Meredith cast out, speaking with her hands. When Meredith got high, her gestures grew progressively larger until she started whacking the people around her. When Jean got high, all she felt was hungry and relaxed. “We have that project, the abnormal psych one. What kind of topic would someone like you want to explore?”

“Addiction,” Jean said. “I already started.”

“Addiction.” Meredith nodded for a moment, then took the joint back from Jean. “What kind of addiction?”

“Sex addiction.”

Meredith's eyes bugged, a sly smile on her lips.

“Interesting choice,” she said. “Why did you choose that?”

Jean watched the way Meredith inhaled, the way her chest shook through a breath. Nowadays, Meredith wore turtlenecks, but they were the tight kind, the kind that looked stylish and not frumpy. Underneath her shirt, the straps of her brassiere puckered against her skin, lace on the cups making little bumps against the fabric. Three nights ago, Jean had let a male friend try unhooking her bra for practice because he was a virgin with a now-serious girlfriend and didn’t know what he was doing. Jean imagined taking the back of Meredith’s brassiere between her fingers and unclasping it in one fluid motion.

“Someone I had sex with accused me of being a sex addict,” Jean said. “I was curious as to whether or not he was right.”

“And was he?”

Jean met Meredith’s eyes, then shook her head. 

“Men can be humiliated by the smallest things,” Jean said, taking the joint back, “and women, it appears, are ostracized for having even half the sex drive of the average man.”

“You act like that’s some major revelation,” Meredith said, unimpressed.

“I just think that objective fact should overrule a single man’s observation.”

“And have you learned anything valuable about sex addicts yet?”

“I’ve learned that treating the addiction to a very human desire is inherently challenging.”

“Really?” Meredith asked, clearly uninterested but not wanting to return to studying. “How so?”

“Well,” Jean began, “you could frame many mental illnesses through a lens of addiction. For example, eating disorders may on the surface appear to be about food, but perhaps one’s eating disorder is rooted in an addiction to control. If that’s the case, then refeeding is only a temporary treatment; though it’s not sustainable, it may be better instead to give them something else to control. Or love, an addiction to loving or caring. How do you teach someone not to love?”

“If anyone could, you could.”

“ _So_ funny.” 

And the rest of the evening was a blur of vending machine snacks and sloppy sex and the taste of trail mix on Meredith’s lips, salty raisins, Jean would forever associate that taste with Meredith’s mouth while they half-studied for an exam Jean got a better grade than Meredith on. And her project on sex addiction led her to apprentice beneath a woman in the doctoral program whose work on sexual practices in different cultures inspired Jean’s undergraduate thesis, and that thesis eventually led to post-graduate work and a man who asked her out fourteen times before she gave in and said yes. And that man gave her a son, among many far less desirable things, and all the while, Meredith was somehow nearby, a peripheral friend, someone seen at the rare overlapping conference or at the grocery store. And, of course, they were Facebook friends, even though Jean didn’t know what that meant either sociologically or within Internet culture. And so many years after Jean fingered Meredith on the balcony in the cold, Meredith sent Jean a Facebook invitation to join her book club, adding a personalized message stating that she thought it would _really_ be within Jean’s interests. The book for the club’s first meeting was _A Room of One’s Own,_ and conveniently, Jean still had her now-ancient copy from a gender studies class in her first year of university.

They met at the public library in a downstairs room, chairs set out in a circle and a table at the edge of the room flaunting water in carafes and big plates of haphazardly placed cookies. When Jean entered the room, her copy of the book in one hand and her thermos of constant-companion mint tea in the other, she zeroed in on the cookie trays, and surely enough, there they were. The Girl Explorers mint cookies. Since she’d finished the one box she bought from Alma, she hadn’t stopped thinking about those mint cookies, but Alma was the only Girl Explorer she knew, and she was too nervous to ask Otis how the Girl Explorers cookie finder tab on their website worked, so she couldn't buy more, not without returning to the Nyman household, not without confronting everything she was trying her best to avoid. But there they were, her mint cookies, crispy mint cookies covered in chocolate, her two favorite flavors, she stood and stared for so long that the next woman entering the room bumped into her in the doorway.

By the time Meredith arrived, Jean had eaten three cookies and stuffed another two into her handbag. Watching university friends age felt stranger than watching childhood friends or friends met in adulthood age, for university friends always seemed so young but so wise in memory, drinking too much and giving presentations on deep and disconcerting topics, higher education paired with not knowing how to open a bank account. Meredith hugged Jean, and she still smelled like peppermint because she'd always been obsessed with keeping her breath fresh, and her hair was dyed an unflattering auburn, the same shade she’d kept since divorcing her husband. And Meredith had bangs now, ones that skirted her eyebrows and were too linear, and she thanked Jean for joining, this was going to be a great group of women, there were some out-of-towners even though Meredith was friends with most of the members of the club, maybe they would all have a chance to meet someone new. For the next book, they would all read _Little Women,_ then have a discussion of the implications of the author’s life in the publication of the book. They would be called _The Modern Woman’s Book Club,_ and Meredith left a sign-up sheet on the cookie table for a screen-printing session in three months, a session during which they would each bring their own canvas bag on which to print a to-be-designed crest for the group. By the time that the group had all come together in their circle of chairs, Jean found that she was excited to discuss the book, excited to write down the date of the next meeting on her calendar.

“So,” Meredith said half an hour into the discussion, a handwritten list of her own discussion questions resting on her lap; her handwriting was still the same, messy and long, out of the margins, “do you think that, if Woolf were writing this book today, she would be advocating for an abolition of marriage? Do you think she believes that childless, unmarried women in our times will help advance all women?”

“Maybe not advance _all_ women,” a voice at the opposite side of the circle from Jean said, “but certainly advance many.”

The rest of the group turned toward the girl, one who barely looked seventeen and who wore a purple and grey fringe jacket, her eyeliner done too thick, her dark hair tucked behind her ears. Was she one of Meredith’s daughters? Though Jean could remember being introduced to Priscilla and Genevieve, had even attended Genevieve’s wedding, she couldn’t remember the third girl, the youngest of the family, one who developed a drug habit of which Jean had only learned through gossip. But surely this girl was too young to be Meredith’s.

“Care to elaborate?” Meredith asked, smiling with tight lips at the girl, the strained look of a schoolteacher who had yet to eat lunch.

“Well,” the girl began, but she seemed skittish now that the attention was directed at her, her brash confidence waning. Though she liked to be right, she didn’t like to be the absolute center of attention. “The room of one’s own could easily be an apartment of one’s own, or a house, or any other place. The point is that it’s removed from the responsibilities expected of women, and that it has no association with a husband or father or other man she must care for. However, if you take away the husband and children, isn’t it all her own? Much of women’s liberation must, of course, be liberation.”

Furrowing her brow, Jean asked, “Do you think that gives the patriarchy too much credit?”

And this girl could do an evil eye stare with ease, eyebrows high, a challenge in her gaze.

“What do you mean?” the girl asked, not out of curiosity so much as out of want to refute.

“Well,” Jean gave, for she hadn’t intended to articulate her point and now needed time to stall, “Woolf’s experiences aren’t so relatable to our own. Nowadays, it’s considered typical for women to be financially and educationally independent; we’ve measured up to men, dare I say with ease, but there’s still a norm of maleness in our society. Though we’ve overcome many of the restrictions faced in Woolf’s time, there are still aspects of womanhood that hold us back from living successful lives in our society. Child-rearing, for instance, becomes a barrier to success when one’s work assumes maleness. We now have more modern ideals in our society, and more women are educated and independent in the way Woolf longed for them to be, but seeing only unmarried, childless women as game-changers leaves plenty of women behind. And what for, the persistence of a patriarchal culture? We don’t need the same opportunities as men, for we _aren’t_ men; we need equity, something that takes into account who we are as women and doesn't force us to conform to the standards of men.”

And as the conversation continued, other members of the book club taking either side and moving forward with the arguments, the girl would glance back to Jean every so often, the look on her face one of a frustration Jean couldn’t pinpoint. Did she go to Moordale? Jean had never spoken to her there, but the girl looked familiar, a passing face in the hallway, someone who clearly didn’t need Jean’s - or anyone’s - help. By the time the conversations concluded, Jean found the girl by the tray of cookies, where they stood alongside each other and silently slipped their favorites into their handbags, more mint cookies for Jean and custard creams for the girl. 

Convivially, Jean asked, “Do you go to Moordale? My son does.”

Stuffing cookies into her bag, the girl forced out _I’m late for something_ and left the room before Jean could think of a fair response.

* * *

She didn’t schedule any patients on the Friday of her first appointment, so she woke up without an alarm, coming downstairs right as Otis left for school, making breakfast when she normally would be speaking to her first client of the day. Granola, yogurt, she added berries from the freezer and stirred until the berries softened and spun purple swirls in the bowl. Because the sun was out, because autumn had yet to grow cold, she ate on the porch, looking out and watching as the local team sculled down the river. That, she thought, would make her feel less tense, moving heavy weights with her arms, the warm and exciting feeling after exercising, but she knew she was in the high-risk demographic, and though she wasn’t sure she would continue the pregnancy, she somehow felt compelled to not take her chances.

And though she didn’t mind if Jakob never came to any of her appointments, she kept picking up her cell phone and checking for new messages; she liked solid schedules, plans being made obvious, and she had no desire to be surprised at her doctor’s office. Still, it was his choice, and she never made him confirm that he would come, and even though she wanted a concrete answer, she couldn’t bring herself to call him, couldn’t send him a message and ask whether or not he would be there. And once she resigned herself to assuming she would be alone at the appointment, she wondered if she could ask him, if he decided to show up, to bring another box of those mint-chocolate cookies from Alma’s troop, for she wanted more and still hadn’t found another Girl Explorer to buy cookies from. Would that be alright? _Hey, Jakob,_ she could text him, _I don’t need you to show up today, it’s completely and totally your choice, but if you do want to come, could you bring me a box of cookies? But only if you want to come. If not, you don’t need to come and bring me a box of cookies. But if you’re coming to see me anyway-_

She had toast for lunch because she felt too nervous to eat anything else, then fidgeted as she drove, the radio not playing anything worth listening to, one of the roads leading to her doctor’s office filled with construction to the point that she needed to take a detour. Earlier in the week, she ran out of soup leftovers, so she and Otis had Indian takeaway one night, then Thai the next, and she ordered based on what she craved, for her stomach was too tight and temperamental for her to opt for something healthy instead. Butter chicken, then, or panang curry, and spring rolls and pakoras and any and all things fried, and coconut sticky rice for dessert. She would heat up leftovers the next day, finish them off on her solo lunch hour, and it rained outside while she finished off the curry, her kitchen table clean and bare, her pans all fitting on their new shelf, her keys on their usual hook, her coats hung by the door. She wanted something to fill in her gaps. She wanted to sit across from someone during her lunch hour and ask how their day was going so far. She wanted someone to take that last little bit of leftovers off of her plate when she was full but ate that last little bit herself instead because she didn’t want to be wasteful. She wanted someone to tell her to read or do chores instead of checking her phone for the remainder of her lunch break. She wanted for there to be a text notification when she next picked up her phone, and she wanted that text message to be from him, and she wanted to smile as she looked down at the message and then responded.

In the parking lot at her doctor’s office, there were two sedans and a truck. No red van, no Jakob. After she checked in, she didn’t find him in the waiting room, not sitting there and leafing through a women’s magazine and trying to figure out the camera on his cell phone so that he could take a picture of a recipe, not holding a box of cookies, not waiting for her. She wanted to reconcile with how she would, if she chose to continue the pregnancy, be facing new motherhood alone, but that reconciliation conflicted with how much she wished she could wake up next to him again. She wanted him in her life, so it was only natural to imagine him holding a baby, _their_ baby, small and warm and new, tufts of hair, Otis had been born with hair, she wondered when she’d last looked at the scrapbook her mother had made of Otis’ baby pictures. And she thought of little sweaters that matched Jakob’s fisherman knits, tiny socks and the co-sleeper she used with Otis after Remi decided to sleep on the couch instead, hearing a first word, the commonality of _mama_ in so many languages, how the most important words tended to be universal. Sitting in the waiting room, staring out at diagrams of the Mirena intrauterine device and posters talking about quitting cigarettes, she thought of coming here again and again and again, routine bloodwork, ultrasounds and milestones and gestational age and the sheer concept of a birth plan when birth, of course, was one of many impossible-to-plan-for biological events. She thought of sitting here alone. She thought of not sitting here at all.

She’d had the same gynecologist since before Otis had been born, and though a midwife had delivered him, her doctor had seen far worse than natural childbirth when Jean came in for an emergency appointment, urgently looking for a blood draw and an exam, for her husband told her that he’d had and subsequently been treated for gonorrhea, and she couldn’t remember whether or not they’d had sex within the dates he’d mentioned. Thankfully, she’d been negative, but the relief of a negative test result felt empty after having to tell her doctor that she hadn’t had any new sexual partners, had been monogamous and true to her marriage while her husband skirted around the origin of the disease and how he had acquired it. Though the nurses had looked at Jean that day as if she were a charity case, they were kind enough to let her sit in the examination room for long enough that she could cry and then pull herself together, managing to leave the office as if nothing of note had happened there.

At her age, she was accustomed to pelvic exams, hated pap smears but winced through them without complaint, answered questions pertaining to sexual health in quick, easy ways. Yes, she’d had multiple sexual partners, all male, most looking a bit too much like her ex-husband for comfort, and yes, they’d used protection each time. Condoms, primarily, but for a stretch of time she had a contraceptive implant, then had it removed because the drug gave her wicked headaches. Though she’d meant to get a prescription for a contraceptive pill, then meant to think about an intrauterine device, she’d grown too busy with work, and she figured that a vasectomy and her age meant that they’d be fine without a condom. He wasn’t the kind of man who gave his pregnant wife gonorrhea, and naively, despite all of her training, she'd thought that the success rate of a vasectomy and a decent man meant that she never needed to feel the uncomfortable side effects of hormonal contraception again. And she doubted any woman expected to conceive at her age.

Based on her last menstrual period, she was six weeks along, and when her doctor mentioned a due date, the next time Jean should come in, Jean realized that she didn’t know how to schedule an abortion, nor where she would have one. That was beyond her scope of practice; though she oftentimes helped her patients call their doctors and arrange for the proper sexual health appointments, she’d never scheduled an abortion for herself. And she thought of the kids she worked with at Moordale, and she wondered, who could offer such advice to me? Her doctor, obviously, so she asked, and her doctor nodded without judgment, then offered to prescribe and schedule for a medication abortion, but Jean brushed that off, asked to schedule a surgical one instead. Though she scheduled for the the eighth week of gestation, still within the timeline for a medication abortion, she wanted there to be finality in her decision, wanted to prevent complications given her age and be absolutely sure of her choice. Though she knew she was capable of taking one pill in her own home, then another in-clinic, she wanted a specific date, a deadline, a time by which she needed to know exactly what she wanted for her future. But luckily, her doctor didn’t need to know that, so she scheduled Jean for two weeks from then and didn’t judge when Jean scheduled routine prenatal checkups as well.

And when Jean went to check out of her doctor’s office, she slowed as she looked out at the waiting room and saw Jakob sitting in one of the chairs, a book resting on his lap, his attention far from her. She watched as he gently turned the page, as he looked down at his watch, as he leaned forward in the too-small chair, and eventually, he glanced up and found her, smiling awkwardly at her, standing and coming over to see her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “got stuck in traffic. Are you hungry?”

And despite her nerves, despite the scheduling and the uncomfortable examination and the many questions she had for him, she smiled.

* * *

“Seriously, I was just looking for one box. And I certainly don’t _need_ it-”

“No, no,” Jakob said, shaking his head and insisting, “she likes these things. She wants to be a good salesperson. And she hates when I steal her thunder.” 

While they sat at a cafe near her doctor’s office and waited for their sandwiches, she made the mistake of mentioning how she wanted more of Alma’s cookies, and because Jakob’s home was on her route back to her own from there, he said she ought to stop by now that the girls were out of school, let Alma sell her another box. And she _did_ want another box of cookies, maybe two, so she kind-of-reluctantly followed him home, the girls’ bikes parked out front, the windows of the house open because there was a nice breeze outside. He unlocked the front door, then held it open for her, beckoned her in. 

“Knock upstairs,” he said as he set down his tools on the cluttered desk in the main room, as he took off his jacket. “They should be studying.”

The pink fairy lights upstairs, the darkness as she drove through the forest around his driveway, the stars shining brighter than before, Jakob still in her rear views. Tepidly, she walked up the stairs, her feet bare because he didn’t like shoes in the house; there was music coming from Ola’s room, so Jean knocked quietly, halfway-hoped that they wouldn’t hear.

But Ola opened the door while wearing a sheet mask and slouchy loungewear, and when she saw Jean, she furrowed her brow from beneath the mask, said with surprise, “Jean?”

“Sorry,” Jean said, her hands gripping her wallet uncomfortably tightly, “I was looking for you sister.”

Ola opened the door farther to reveal Alma sitting on a beanbag chair and using Ola’s cell phone to change the song from Post Malone to Ariana Grande, no textbooks or binders in sight. A girls' night in on Friday, no work to be done, pajamas on before six in the evening and time to talk about school and boys - or girls - and what dramas were currently happening. Once Alma had changed the song, she looked to Jean, her own sheet mask dipping off of her cheek, and matched her sisters look of surprise.

“Hey, Jean,” Alma said awkwardly. “Papa didn’t say you were coming for dinner.”

“I’m not staying,” Jean said quickly, too quickly. “I was passing by and asked your father if I could buy more cookies.”

Thankfully, Alma smiled and sprung up, pushing past Jean and heading to her own bedroom and calling back, “What kind?”

“The mint ones,” Jean said as Alma ducked into the room, “and two boxes, if you have that many.”

Would two boxes be enough? Of course two boxes would be enough. She shouldn’t be eating so many cookies anyway. When Alma returned with two boxes, Jean gave the girl exact change. 

“Girls' night?” Jean asked while Alma recorded the purchase on her Explorers-provided spreadsheet.

“Don’t tell Papa,” Alma gave. “He thinks we’re studying.”

“I’ve never seen face masks like those before.”

“It’s Korean skincare,” Alma said. “It’s a trend.”

“Huh.”

“Would you like one?”

And Alma ducked back into her room, so she couldn’t see as Jean shook her head, said, “No, that’s alright.”

“For real,” Alma said, coming back with a packaged mask, the front cover showing a cartoon penguin and Korean text, “this one breaks us both out. We won't use it anyway.”

“That’s very kind,” Jean said, holding the mask, her wallet, and the two boxes of cookies awkwardly in her overfilled hands. “Thank you.”

And Jakob was reading on the couch downstairs, and without her shoes on, she could tiptoe down and maybe even head out the front door without him noticing, and she should, shouldn’t she? She should leave and end this day on an optimistic note. He’d meant to be there for her appointment. When she went to check out, she’d seen him and been so overwhelmed that her mind had gone blank, the way he turned the pages of his book grounding her, the way he looked down at his watch, the familiarity. Then, he bought her lunch even though she wanted to split the bill, two paninis, a double espresso for him and a latte for her, hearts were easy to make with milk foam, she’d looked down at the heart in her cup and had thought, _maybe._

Though she couldn’t ask him about the pregnancy, couldn’t question his motives for coming to her appointment, she stared at him on the couch and wanted to ask nonetheless. Did he want to be a father again? But she wasn’t asking him to be a father again, not really, but she knew that, if she were in his position, she would feel strange about a child she never intended to love no matter how much she believed that biology didn’t make a family. It was existential, not political: how could one live knowing they’d chosen not to love a child? And there was a fifty percent chance that she would miscarry before the end of the first trimester, and she had an abortion scheduled in two weeks, so she couldn’t really call this _a child,_ not when the odds were stacked against a live birth, but damn the biology, the statistics, the tests and the examinations and the appointments she had scheduled. She wanted to know how he _felt._

Setting the things she held down by the door, she walked over to the couch, sat down alongside him, took him from his book. When she glanced down at the pages, she found accents on the letters, dots above vowels. 

He noticed how she stared, so he said, “My sister sends them. I don’t like reading for pleasure in English.” 

Quirking her lip, she tried to make a joke, said, “I do.”

And he smiled, and she exhaled, and it felt so _good_ to make him smile. It felt like sprinting and then stopping to catch her breath when she made him smile. 

He traced one sentence in the novel, his finger pressed to one word, then said, “ _Farthinder._ ”

“What?” she asked, laughing. The word wasn’t pronounced like _thistle_ so much as it was like _fart._

“ _Farthinder,_ ” he repeated. “You try.”

Far, like something being far away, a long, long way to run, then like _tinder,_ what helps spark a flame. 

“And what does it mean?” she asked, looking down at where his finger met the page.

“Speedbump,” he said, and somehow Jean found that one word funny, and he then found it funny because she found it funny.

“Show me more,” she said, and his finger trailed down the page, and she tucked her legs up on the couch and leaned against him and pretended she was only doing so in order to read the page better.

 _Smörgås,_ the word for sandwich. _Smörgåsen,_ the sandwich, and the letter that looked like an _a_ to Jean was pronounced like _oh,_ and over lunch he’d asked her how the appointment had gone, and she’d said she was in the clear for now, then said she’d scheduled an abortion just so that she could get on the schedule, not because she absolutely wanted to have one. He turned the page, traced his fingertip down over the black-inked words, then found _plankar,_ like jumping the turnstile, not paying for public transportation. When he turned the page again, he couldn’t find anything special to teach her, so he took a pen from his pocket, started writing certain words down on the back of his hand.

“This one is a challenge,” he said as Jean squinted down at his hand. Her glasses were on the dashboard in her car. “ _Sköldpadda._ ”

“I absolutely cannot say that,” she said, shaking her head.

“Oh, come on. You can do it,” he encouraged. “ _Sköldpadda_. Say it with me.”

He pronounced it like _fell-padda,_ or _schvel,_ she couldn’t tell the difference, and as she tried to say it, he sounded the word out with her, nodding along with each syllable, congratulating her as she managed to say _something_ that she knew no other Swede would understand.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, still wincing from her pronunciation.

“Turtle!” he said, laughing, then scribbled down another word. “This one, I think you will like. _Badkruka._ ”

“Is this another animal?”

“No, not at all.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means someone who thinks that the water is too cold for swimming,” he said. “Are you like that, always thinking the water is too cold?”

“No, absolutely not,” she said, huffing as if such a thing were beneath her when in reality she couldn’t remember where her swimsuits were, when the last time she’d taken a dip was. And she even had a dock onto the river, the walk to it a bit tumultuous and ankle-turning but short nonetheless. When had she last gone swimming? In the summers while he was little, she would take Otis down there once she was finished with work, and they would jump off the dock and swim together, then build fairy houses out of sticks and leaves on the shore until Remi called down from the porch and asked why dinner wasn’t on yet.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he said, smiling as he capped his pen, two words in blue ink blurring on his hand. She felt the deep and irreconcilable urge to reach out and cover those words with her own hand, but before she could impulsively do so, he was putting the pen back into his pocket, her chance gone.

And she pulled out of his driveway with her wallet, cookies, and face mask on the passenger’s seat, Jakob inside and not in her rear views, the day still bright, Friday afternoon and the perfect time for two teenage girls to put on masks and listen to music and talk. She’d meant for Otis to have a sibling. She’d meant for Otis to have a father. When she parked out front of her home, she saw his bike leaning against the fence, a surprise, he often stayed late at school or went to Eric’s to hang out. Walking through the front door, she looked into the living room in search of him, or was he upstairs in his bedroom? She could feel a cross-breeze, the glass doors to the porch must’ve been opened, she left her keys on their normal hook, hid the cookies behind a mason jar of oats in the cabinet, left the face mask on the kitchen counter, then went out to see why Otis was on the porch.

With his school work sprawled out around him, he sat at the table and worked on an English essay, copies of Faulkner books stacked alongside his notebook. 

“Hey,” she said, trying not to startle him, and he looked back at her so casually, and she wondered if she now had a secret that she was keeping from him. “Why are you studying on a Friday night?”

He shrugged, gave, “To get ahead.”

Leaning against the table and looking out at the river down below, she asked, “Don’t you have two more days during which you can _get ahead?_ ”

“I think you’re the first parent in history to berate their child for doing their homework, Mum.”

“Let’s go swimming.”

He furrowed his brow, asked, “What?”

“Swimming,” she said as if such a proposition were normal between them. “You know, like when you were younger. Off of the dock.”

“The dock’s rotted. I told you that already.”

“Then we wade in,” she gave. “The weather’s nice, and it’s not going to get any warmer. I doubt the water is cold.”

And though Otis was hesitant, she could see that little glint in his eyes that meant he wanted an excuse to say yes. Though on his own he wouldn’t have said yes, he would say yes if such a thing were made convenient, for he _did_ want to do it, just not if he needed to do it alone. Her son, her boy, he didn’t talk to her much nowadays, but he asked for her advice in repairing what he did with his so-called _sex clinic_ at school, and she still knew how he looked when he wanted something. It hurt to feel as if she knew him, but it hurt in the best way possible.

“I don’t know if my suit still fits,” he said. “The last time I wore it was in France.”

Yes, their trip to France, the French seaside, she got food poisoning, and Otis ended up forty miles from where he intended to be because he thought that the French pronounced every single letter and therefore couldn’t understand the spoken words within the train system. She had to rent a car and then pull over multiple times during the drive because all of the clutching had only worsened her nausea. But still, they managed one or two days at the beach, and he’d been a foot shorter and still excited to show her the shells he found on the shore.

“It should still fit,” she said and nodded to confirm even though she very, _very_ much doubted that it would fit.

And her own suit was buried in the back of her underwear drawer, the wrap detail at the hip undone, she hadn’t had the confidence to wear a two-piece recently and had never been comfortable without cup padding that made her breasts look unnaturally smooth. Should she wear sunscreen? Of course she should, but she wasn’t going to, not now. Instead, she followed her son down the slope, and he complained _Mum, I swear, this suit is much too small,_ but it was too short rather than too small, so she told him that no one would see them and hoped that would be enough to quell his discomfort. The dock had rotted into the muddy banks of the river, and when Otis tried putting weight on one of the boards, the board fell through with ease, no longer apt to carry them, so Jean slipped off her shoes and waded through the mud instead, and the water was _cold_ , so cold that goosebumps raised on her skin, so cold that she hissed as she waded in up to her stomach, and because she knew she wanted to despite the cold, she forced herself to dive forward, plunge beneath the water, take in the cold in its entirety. 

When she crested above the surface, she pushed her bangs back, whipped her head around to watch as Otis plugged his nose between two fingers and dipped below the water. The sun was still out, the brightness strong enough that she needed to squint, and as she breathed deeply, started to float on her back, she closed her eyes, pushing away the glare, feeling the contrast between warm sun and cold water on her skin. And Otis huffed when he came up for air, shivered and said _it’s cold,_ and she extended her arms, pressed the water away, moved further toward the center of the river. Though she could feel a current, for now she didn’t worry that it would pull her away. For now, she only thought of the contrast between warm and cold, her morning and now, stirrups and warm grilled sandwiches, ink on pages and her body pressed against Jakob's. 

She had two weeks until she needed to make her decision. For now, she closed her eyes and decided not to think.


	3. Chapter 3

Jean woke up cold on Monday morning, and when she opened the blinds, she looked out at the grass outside to find it bright with frost, the first autumn chill, the tips of the leaves just starting to change color. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she walked downstairs and put the kettle on for French press coffee, then wondered if she had time to make a hot breakfast.

Last night, he sent her a text message while she did the face mask the girls had given her, one with a creepy animal face over the sheet, and she called him in response because the thought of doing so both scared and enticed her. He said _switch to video_ ; she knew he preferred FaceTime to a regular phone call - he once video-called Ola from the kitchen and ask if she could make sure her sister remembered the cupcakes on the counter for the bake sale at school - but Jean was wearing a moist sheet that looked like a penguin, so she said no.

“Why are you calling?” he asked across the line.

She leaned back in bed, blanket over her legs, her bedroom was too cold, and because she didn’t want to get her phone wet, she put him on speaker and left the phone alongside her, folding her hands over her chest. _To hear your voice,_ she thought but didn’t say, then winced, for what did something like that say about her? And she didn’t want to hear his voice so much as she wanted for his presence to fill up her bedroom, for him to hit his head on the too-low overhead light again, for him to open the windows in the morning and ask if she wanted coffee or tea. 

“To check in,” she gave, and thankfully, he didn’t ask her to elaborate.

The usual pleasantries, questions about their children, he’d always been easy to talk to, too easy, she remembered telling him about her writing on the day she met him and shaking off the statement, wondering why she’d said so much. He asked her how she was feeling, and though she’d vomited twice that morning, she told him that she felt okay. He said that his back was bothering him, he was getting old, and she thought of how he’d rubbed her shoulders after she had four back-to-back clients, two of whom had been coping with the aftermath of sexual assault, and she thought of how he’d leaned down from behind her and had kissed the place where her shirt met her collarbone, a sacred gesture, a blessing. She wanted to reach beneath his shirt and bring her palms to his back, rub there while he sighed in relief.

“There’s something I would like to ask you about,” he said, his tone tentative enough to make her anxious, “but I don’t know if I should.”

“You can ask me anything,” she said because she felt she should. “Why are you afraid?”

“I don’t want to upset either of us,” he said. “I’m not sure I really want to know.”

“It’s okay,” she said even though she felt it wasn’t. “I don’t think the truth could hurt us now.”

“I want to ask you about your ex-husband.”

She started to peel off the sticky mask, leaving the crumpled heap of it in its opened wrapper on her bedside table and then rubbing the moisture left behind into her cheeks. Though she’d known such questions were inevitable, she hadn’t prepared herself to answer them _now,_ when she was in bed and winding down and hoping to nod off while listening to him tell her about his day, just like old times. 

“What about him?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant even though she knew her acting was of no use. 

“Why did you divorce?” 

Remi had gone to a motel and canceled the remainder of his appointments for the month after she caught him cheating, and because he was sick of paying the fees - he had a bank account that she hadn’t known about, but at that point, he couldn’t surprise her anymore - he asked if she wanted to rekindle things or not, for if she _did_ want to, then he would come home, but if not, then he would rent elsewhere. Though his name was on the deed for the house, he didn’t come for their assets, didn’t try to keep his car or gain custody of his son; no, he wanted a swift divorce, and from there, he went to America and didn’t look back. When Otis asked about his father coming home, Jean had told him that his father was on a book tour, and it would be a while, sweetheart, but if you want to, you can call him on the phone, but you’ll need my help, for he’s in a country very far away, a place where the numbers are different.

“He cheated on me,” she gave, hoping that she wouldn’t need to elaborate.

“And you left him?”

“No, he left me.”

“Did he only do it the one time?”

“No, but that was the only time I ever caught him,” she said, resigning to how she would need to tell Jakob everything. “Or, rather, our son caught him and told me. But before then, I knew he wasn’t being exclusive, though I couldn’t do much about it.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath, trying to decide if she should tell the truth, for the version of her that had been married to Remi, the version of her that still existed deep down and had been so flattered by him when he came to see her recently, had been naive and stupid, thinking that organic foods, spirituality, and divine femininity would save her soul. Then, her husband nearly gave her a sexually transmitted disease while she was pregnant with their child, and with that in the back of her mind, she went through her days seeing little signs, small things amiss that otherwise she would have ignored, his datebook filled with things he refused to tell her about, his _meetings_ tending not to be with his publisher. Because she wanted things to work, because she wanted to be a good mother, she scrambled to turn them into a billboard couple, two sex gurus who would enlighten anyone who bought their book, a joint book tour, salacious but educational seminars, she dyed her hair dark and wore sparkles and whitened her teeth using strips that would sometimes bleach her gums too. And it all worked, for they were bestsellers, and bookstores around the world wanted them as speakers, and they represented the kind of sexual freedom and wellness that people craved in this world full of taboo subjects and faked orgasms. And then, her son saw her husband cheating on her, and she knew instantly that the facade she’d so carefully crafted was merely a facade, that it would never save them, that she couldn’t build a family on something falsified. 

Still, she’d thought that saying _you put your cock in her_ would start a fight, not make him leave and never come back. And she’d gone to bed on the nights afterward crying because she missed him, even though now she realized that he’d never really loved her, at least not in a way that was kind, at least not in a way that had reflected how she’d felt about him. When he asked so nonchalantly for a divorce, as if he were asking if she wanted pizza or Chinese takeout for dinner tonight, she spent the rest of her week feeling as if she were navigating through fog, avoiding meals, calling a babysitter for Otis and then going to the library, to a cafe, to a parking lot, to anywhere that wasn’t the home in which her husband fucked other women behind her back, and there, she would sit silently and wait for the feeling to pass, but the feeling never passed. She knew it would have become a much deeper depression had she not been sitting on the couch one day, her eyes glassy from how she felt, and found her son climbing up onto her lap, snuggling against her as if he were years younger, wrapping his arms around her and closing his eyes, needing his mother. And she held him on the couch and knew that she would wake up the next day and be present, not because she wanted to be but because he needed her to be. And she knew that she would fight for sole custody, for had her son done the same to Remi, he would’ve said _not right now, I’m working_ and shut Otis out, leaving the boy to fend for himself, leaving their son alone.

“The first time I found out,” she said, anxious but knowing she was doing the right thing, “I was five months pregnant, and he only told me because he’d contracted gonorrhea and worried about my health. And even then, he didn’t tell me that he’d had sex with another woman, maybe even multiple other women. When I asked how he’d gotten the disease, he evaded the subject, and I was scared to press him on it.”

He was silent on the other end of the line. Though she felt too warm, started to kick off the blankets, she found that her skin was still cool from the face mask.

“For years after that, I saw plenty of signs,” she gave, “but I did my best to create a family despite them all. And then my son saw his father cheating on me, and I couldn’t let it go on any longer, but when I brought it all up with my husband, he left me. And we started the process for divorce a month later.”

Looking down at her phone, she checked that he was still on the line, and of course he was; he just didn’t know what to say, and frankly, she didn’t either, but she knew what other questions he likely would have, so she pressed on, tried to answer every last one.

“And when he came here recently, I wasn’t expecting him,” she said. “He’s done that a number of times, usually after he fought with his second wife or had something in his life fall through. I used to keep a guest room upstairs for him, the bed always made up; he had one set of sheets that he particularly liked, and I...it sounds so ridiculous now, but I went out and bought a set to fit the bed in there. And I washed them and put them on the bed for when he would come next. And he came every so often, and it was easier when Otis was young, for he was always excited to see his father, and despite it all, his father did make an effort. It was only this last time that Otis realized that his father wasn’t a good person, and I don’t know how that could’ve been, but even a few weeks ago, he had a Skype call with his father and sounded...I don’t know, _excited._ And he always felt so sad when his father went a long time without calling. Then, his father took him and his best friend camping, and he saw the worst sides of his father, and afterward, I could see that something had changed, like a spark in him had gone out. And he clung to me more than he normally does. And it hurt.

“But when he showed up unannounced, I was nervous. I hadn’t wanted him here, and I was already having doubts about...well, everything, I suppose. And I didn’t mean to embarrass you, and I’m sorry for that. Whenever I’m around him, even when we were married, he makes me feel so... _small._ So inconsequential. I always felt like I could never measure up to him, and when I told him that, he would make me feel like nothing in the end. And it didn’t help that the book I published without him only did alright while the book I published with him was a bestseller. I think he could convince much of anyone that they would be far worse off without him even if there’s plenty of evidence of the opposite. And he made me feel small again, and I tried to inflate myself, and I hurt you in the process. And I’m sorry for that.

“And I hate that I hurt you,” she said, and now, she felt tears sting her eyes, and though she didn’t want to cry, she felt viscerally how much she meant what she wanted to say, then wondered if there was a way to mean something that deeply without being overcome with emotion in the process. “I hate that I made you feel unintelligent or unaccomplished. He brought out the worst in me, and I took that out on you, and I’m sorry. And I think…”

She tried to find a way to phrase what she meant but struggled to put together the right words, for how could she express what she thought of him without saying too much? 

“I think you’re kind. And generous,” she said, “and that you’re one of the best parents I’ve ever met. And you’ve raised two wonderful girls, and you’ve always communicated so well with me even though I hardly reciprocate, and you _care,_ Jakob. And you could be a burnout on top of that, or a lazy person who lacks ambition and does nothing all day, but even if you were like that, you’d _still_ be far better a person than my ex-husband. You’d still be a person much more worth knowing, for you’re _good_ , and you care about others. And you care about yourself as well.”

Taking a deep breath, she finished on that note, hoped she hadn’t insulted him. She wasn’t sure how she could express _fuck intellectualism_ without calling him stupid in the process, which he absolutely wasn’t. 

After a long silence, Jakob asked, voice quiet, “Why did you kiss him?”

She closed her eyes in discomfort, balled her fists.

“He started pouring gin, and I ended up drunk,” she said, “and he complimented me, and he kissed me, and I...kissed him back.”

And they both stewed with that statement for a long time, the world beyond her windows dark, Otis having gone to bed long ago. She had a patient at nine the next morning, and if her nausea came on equally strong tomorrow, then she doubted the appointment would be comfortable for her. With September coming to an end, the weather grew colder, and though sleeping alone in the summer never bothered her, she would reach mid-November when she began to feel an acute sense of loneliness, taking a hot water bottle with her to bed hoping that that could simulate being held. If he were to stay over again and reach for her after her alarm went off in the morning, the same thing he did each time they shared a bed, now she would let him take her in his arms and hold her, if only for the warmth.

“I care about you, Jean,” he finally said, his words measured and slow, calculated, “but I don’t know if I can trust you.”

The next morning, his words echoed in her mind again and again while the kettle hissed, while her eggs fried, while she brewed ginger tea and prayed she could get through her morning client without feeling nauseous. And after her client left, she vomited while thinking about how he couldn’t trust her anymore, then leaned against the sink and caught her breath while wondering why, _why_ had she kissed Remi? _Because he’s a manipulator,_ her training told her, but still, _she_ had been the one to kiss him back. _She_ had had that intention. Why had she done it? How could she have been so stupid?

As she washed her mouth out, brushed her teeth, tried to compose herself, she realized that there were stages to realizing that one had made a horrible mistake. First, the mistake was made, and initial shame for it was felt; then, the mistake had repercussions for others, and she sat with the discomfort of knowing she’d done wrong and lacking an excuse for why she did so. From there, she could see how she’d wronged others, could see how she needed to make amends, but the next stage was arguably the hardest, for she was forced to realize that she couldn’t fully repair what she’d ruined. No, she couldn’t apologize to him and move on; because he felt that he couldn’t trust her anymore, she might never make this right between them. She would have to go on with the shame. She would have to prove that she could do better elsewhere.

Making toast for lunch, buttering the slices and staring down at them with trepidation, she thought about claiming she was sick and canceling on her remaining clients, then going back to her doctor and opting for the medication abortion instead. Then, nothing would tether her to him, and they could both move on in their own ways, realize that they were incompatible and let go of what could have been. If he couldn’t trust her, then she wondered if she could have this child, if she would be doing something disgusting by letting him watch a woman he didn’t trust care for a child he didn’t want. And though it was her choice in the end whether or not to continue the pregnancy, she didn’t want to cause him harm, didn’t want to do something that upset him or angered him or made him feel scared. She didn’t want her choice to be just another bit of her own negligence that hurt him deeply. She especially didn’t want for any child of hers to grow up feeling as if its existence was one rooted in harm.

But she knew better than to make impulsive decisions when emotions ran high, so she brought her head to her hands, her toast untouched, and cried for her lunch hour, no calls made, no cancellations and no major changes and no messages to Jakob. Once she was done, she put in eyedrops, applied more tinted moisturizer, and took her next clients with a smile, acting as if nothing had happened.

* * *

When she was in her first trimester with Otis, she asked Remi to make soup for her, she could remember her mother making her soup whenever she was sick as a girl, and Remi bought her canned chicken noodle in response. The association was strong enough that as she walked through the aisles of the grocery store, she gravitated toward those cans, how easy it would be to buy twenty and call those lunch and dinner for the week. But the sodium content was so high, wasn’t it? She couldn’t merit that expense, but still, she looked at the cans and thought of how her stomach felt, then put two chicken and rice - and one Italian wedding, as a treat - into her cart, just in case.

A bag of spinach, cream for coffee, at least two more tins of mint tea, candied ginger, she crossed items off of her list as her cart filled, then wondered how she could make soup on her own at home. She’d heard that bone broth was good for aching stomachs, but she didn’t know how to make such a thing. Could she google it? If she looked in the attic for her mother’s cookbooks, would she find a recipe there? Though it seemed so simple, making _broth_ of all things, she still didn’t know how to do such a thing. Of course she didn’t, she was a bad cook, Remi had told her that she was a bad cook plenty of times, and though Otis pretended she wasn’t, she still could tell that he thought she was either bland or overzealous, undercooking or overcooking, never reaching the sweet spot. And as she found a thawing whole chicken in the poultry section, as she asked the butcher to sell her beef bones, she tried not to berate herself about how poor she was at self-care, tried not to make herself feel worse than she already did. When she passed the aisle for vitamins, she thought about picking up more in case she ran out, then decided against it, figuring they would likely go to waste.

The rain began as she loaded her canvas grocery bags into her car, her bank and post office errands already done; all she needed to do was drive home and settle in for the evening, no more clients, just dinner with her son and relaxing before bed left for the day. And today had been hard too, for her stomach kept turning, and she couldn’t remember the morning sickness being so _bad_ with Otis, or if it had been bad, it had been a different kind of bad from this, a steady throb that grew impossible to ignore, an ache that wasn’t painful enough to pull her from her daily responsibilities but one that made those responsibilities feel daunting nonetheless. Nonsensically, the sound of the rain hitting her windshield as she drove worsened the nausea, so she forced herself through a breathing exercise, counted aloud in order to ground herself, promised her aching stomach that she would drink tea and lie down as soon as she arrived home, but she stopped the exercises when she noticed someone walking on the side of the road, the same fringe jacket, the same combative body language. Because no other cars were nearby, she slowed down alongside the girl, rolled down her car window, called out into the rain. 

“Hey,” Jean shouted over the passenger’s seat, “do you need a lift?”

“I’m good, thanks,” the girl dismissed, hands in her pockets as she walked on, not bothering to give Jean her attention.

“I’m not a stranger,” Jean said, still driving slowly alongside the girl. “We’re in the same book club, if you remember. Where’re you headed? I can drop you there.”

“I don’t need a ride,” the girl repeated, but she glanced to Jean this time, a flash of recognition, a discomfort in that recognition.

“Come on,” Jean gave, “it’s pouring.”

And the girl gave in, opened up Jean’s passenger’s side door, setting her bag at her feet as she closed the door behind her and rolled the window up. 

“Where to?” Jean asked, regaining speed. 

“The caravan park,” the girl said hesitantly, “if that’s not too far.”

“No, not too far at all.”

The wipers slapped against the windshield; the rain was starting to fall harder, and Jean was thankful that the girl had gotten in. 

“So,” Jean said, small-talking, “do you go to Moordale?”

“Yes,” the girl gave tersely. 

“My son goes there,” Jean said. “Do you know him? Otis Milburn?”

The girl laughed humorlessly, then said, “Yes, I know Otis.”

“And unfortunately you must’ve sat through my...presentation,” Jean gave awkwardly.

“Yeah, we all did.”

“Otis told me to be relatable.”

That time, the girl laughed genuinely.

“Did he?” she asked, wondering if Jean would elaborate.

“I guess I wasn’t sure what that meant,” Jean said, shaking her head. “And then there was the comment about the courgettes, which to this day I still don’t understand.”

“It was an aubergine.”

Furrowing her brow, Jean asked, “What?”

“You wanked off an aubergine, not a courgette.”

And Jean remembered the video in an instant, a DVD companion to the book she and Remi wrote together, pre-divorce, post-brunette, right in the heart of her sparkles phase. The silver dress, silver _really_ wasn’t her color, she could still remember how scratchy the fabric felt each time she moved her arm up and down.

“Wait,” Jean said quickly, her cheeks growing hot, “how did the students know about that video?”

“Adam Groff sent it to everyone a while back,” the girl gave. “Otis got so embarrassed by it, but he was okay in the end. Didn’t he tell you?”

Jean’s chest felt tight, another pain on top of the specific ache near her shoulder, but she kept her voice level as she said, “No, he didn’t tell me.”

“Anyway,” the girl said, her tone shifting, something gentler, “Adam took three Viagras and had to pay the price that afternoon. Karma’s a bitch.”

They sat in silence as Jean made a turn toward the park and away from her home. Though she was taking a detour, she hoped the girl didn’t realize, for she hadn’t wanted the girl to walk in this rain, especially not such a far distance. 

“I know you’re not doing that anymore,” the girl asked, speaking quickly because she was uncomfortable, “but could I ask you for some advice?”

Jean shook her head, gave, “Not about sex. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Not about sex,” the girl said. “I meant...regular advice.”

“Oh. Yes, okay.”

The girl swallowed, looked out the passenger’s side window as she thought. Glancing over at the girl, Jean saw little pink tassel earrings on her ears, strangely out-of-character and clashing with the fringe jacket. 

“So,” the girl said, “say you had feelings for someone, and you both knew you had feelings for each other, but things just...hadn’t worked out yet. And things were awkward between you because neither of you knew what to ask just yet. Like the unspoken things are too big to mention, or something. What do you do?”

“Ask the questions you want to ask, I suppose,” Jean gave.

“But if those questions are asked of you, how do you answer them?”

“Honestly, I suppose.”

“But what if being honest is a bit...much?”

“Well,” Jean said, “if you both have feelings for each other, I doubt it would be _much_ in the end.”

“And what if you’re afraid of the answers the other person might give?”

Softly, Jean smiled, the look on the girl’s face so romantically distraught, a crush, a crush, a crush. Big emotions in young bodies, the overwhelm of an underdeveloped brain, the all-or-nothing sensation she could remember all too well. 

“Then you decide which is worse,” Jean said, “either knowing the answers or never knowing them at all.”

The girl nodded at first hesitantly but then in agreement, saying _yeah, alright_ with more conviction, confirming it all. 

“Could I ask something of you in return?” Jean said as she turned onto the dirt road leading into the park. “Some advice.”

Furrowing her brow in confusion, the girl managed, “Fine.”

“I don’t know how to make soup,” Jean gave, taking the car as far as it could go, putting it into park, “and I really want soup right now. And a...friend of mine is very good at making soup, but he’s angry at me right now. Not angry, no, but he’s not happy with me. I’m not sure he wants to be around me right now. But I’d like to know how he makes such good soup. Should I call him?”

“Is this a euphemism?” the girl asked, back to being combative. 

Jean smiled. 

“No, it’s unfortunately quite literal.”

“Then just call him.” The girl opened the passenger’s side door, slung her bag over her shoulder. “It would be stupid not to.”

And she shut the door behind her, then walked off without another word.

* * *

Jean hadn’t meant to sound sick, but she’d thought a text message would fall flat, and her stomach lurched midway through the call. Hanging up on him suddenly, she raced into the bathroom to vomit, her ringtone sounding from her pocket as she was sick, and by the time she called him back, she couldn’t think of a better excuse than the truth. _Sorry,_ she said, _I’ve been really sick recently,_ and he said _let me come over,_ and she couldn’t think of a way to say no.

When he chopped onions, he knew exactly where to cut each time, working quickly enough that neither of them ended up with watering eyes; though he complained about how dull her knives were, he still kept his cuts along the celery stalks and carrots uniform. He brought a canvas bag of aromatics from home because he figured she wouldn’t have such things in her pantry, and as he pulled herbs from the bag, she asked how he had such fresh rosemary, and he told her that it was from one of his plants, then asked her to go lie down on the couch, he would bring her some tea shortly.

With a sporting event happening at school, Otis was out of the house, so Jean and Jakob were alone as Jean settled in on the couch, the knit blanket from her bedroom warming her up as rain poured outside, fall turning colder all around her and steam rising high from the soup pot on the stove as he stirred. She faced the couch cushions rather than the television and closed her eyes, trying to appear asleep, not in the mood for a conversation and hoping he would bring her tea, turn off the stove, and leave. And he did bring her tea, hesitating before setting the cup down gently on the coffee-table, not wanting to wake her, but her eyes shot open when she heard him heading upstairs, why was he going upstairs? Was the stove still on? Yes, she could hear the pot bubbling, the stove was still on, he was still cooking, but he was going upstairs, seeking something out. His old shirts? His spare change? And she envisioned him taking away the last pieces of himself in this house, taking a look at the boiler, tightening the bolts in the sink, repairing the chip in one of her ceramic mugs, removing any evidence of himself in her life. She imagined him sitting down on her bed for old time’s sake, running the fabric of her yellow robe between his fingers, and then standing up and leaving, never to return again.

But she still had one piece of him left, and with the way her stomach felt, with the breast pain and the anxiety and the incessant wonder of what would come next, she found herself ready to sever ties with that last little bit of him. Though she had plenty of fantasies - him with a baby in his warm arms, the skin-to-skin feeling that made her ache to remember, the little family they could build together - she forced them away, the sacrifices for such a thing too great, the likelihood of her dreams coming true so slim that there was no use pretending anymore. And tomorrow, she would call her doctor, and she wouldn’t be pregnant next week, and she wouldn’t need more appointments, and she would be able to move forward, move on. 

He came back downstairs, so she shut her eyes again, listened as he went back to the kitchen, then opened...the washer? He was putting something into the wash. What was he washing, the shirts he left here? So he wanted to be rid of every part of her, then, even the last lingering bits of her scent in his clothes. And though she hadn’t been able to wear his shirts, had forced such thoughts away and instead cast his shirts into a shadowed corner of her bedroom, she ached with how much she would miss those shirts, a flannel and a grey button-down, just two shirts, she would wake up in the morning to find them gone and would cry, she knew she would. He started a wash cycle; she pulled the blanket up to cover her face, turn the world around her dark. He stirred the pot on the stove; she exhaled as quietly as she could, trying to calm herself down.

And she fell asleep without intending to, the touch of his hand against her back waking her, something gentle, something soft. When she turned over to look up at him, he stared down at her with the warmth he had on their mornings together, his _I’ll go take a shower_ warmth, his _let me make you breakfast_ warmth. Outside, the sun had set, and his face was cast in the soft light from the kitchen. He’d kept the living room half-dark so that she could sleep.

“Would you like some dinner?” he asked, his palm resting on her shoulder, his thumb tracing back and forth.

No, she didn’t want dinner at all; her stomach was still uneasy, and she didn’t want to aggravate it more, not tonight, not now. What she wanted was for him to bring her into his big arms and lift her up, carry her to bed, warm sheets, warm bodies, and as he went to leave, she would reach out for him, ask him to stay the night, and he would say that he didn’t want to have sex, and she would tell him that she didn’t want to have sex either. And he would hold her until she fell asleep, and in the morning, his two shirts would still be in their quiet corner of her bedroom, not leaving just yet. 

She covered his hand on her shoulder with hers, her arm crossing over her chest in order to do so, a half-hug guarding her heart. His eyes were so blue, and his body was so _expansive,_ she couldn’t describe it another way, he filled the rooms he entered, had the spirit necessary to make a house a home. His hand was warm beneath hers, and if she focused, she could feel his pulse there, where his arteries turned to veins and where his blood started traveling back again. 

“I need to ask you something,” she said, and if it hadn’t been dark outside, if there hadn’t been rain speckling her windows, if she hadn’t been nauseous and if he hadn’t made her dinner yet again, she wouldn’t have spoken up, but he was looming above her and making her feel safe, and she needed to know. He couldn’t trust her, and she needed to know.

“Okay,” he managed, his face falling. 

As if things could be easy between them. As if she could let him care for her.

“I need to know,” she said, conviction tasting acrid, his stare too intense. She could hear the dryer running in the background, clothes thumping through the cycle, the kitchen floor would be warm when she next stood near the machine. Swallowing her nerves, she looked at him directly, asked, “If I don’t have the abortion, what will you do?”

He furrowed his brow, unsure of what she was asking, and though she thought she should rephrase the question, she couldn’t bring herself to do so, needed him to answer exactly that question, needed him to hear exactly those words. And his grip on her shoulder slackened, but her hand held his there, and she felt her heart pound, her stomach churn, her anxiety come in full force. Though she couldn’t think, couldn’t find the proper words to express how she felt, she knew what she wanted him to say, and the pain of that want, the pain of wanting anything at all, ached in her chest, for this was her last chance, and she knew it was hopeless. She knew that they together were hopeless, clinging to something that could have been, wishing they could have been in love, an easy love, the kind of love that took her to Paris for their anniversary, the kind of love that made her pancakes in the morning. And she wanted him to hold a child of theirs, wanted to make a little fantastical family with him, and she wanted Otis and Ola and Alma to be smitten with the baby, the most excited child-minders in the country, FaceTiming home from university just to say hi, and she wanted a scrapbook full of pictures, the blurry ones from the early hours, the photographs growing clearer as their child aged, winter fleece pajamas against Jakob’s arms, baby blankets, her mother’s hands using patterned tape to secure pictures to thick white pages. 

But her mother was gone now, had been gone for almost fifteen years. She was asking him to stop the fantasies. She was asking him to tell her that such a thing would absolutely never happen.

“I don’t know,” he said, and she could punch him. She could force the heel of her hand into his nose and break the bridge with ease. She could watch him bleed. “I don’t know what you want.”

“I want to know what you would do,” she said, almost spat. “I want to know how things would be.”

“This is your choice, Jean,” he said, shaking his head, “not mine.”

And she laughed at that, for though it was her choice, that choice affected him, and it affected her children, his children, two families, two sets of lives. Was it really her decision if she could hurt so many people with that decision? But if it wasn’t her decision, then whose was it?

“I don’t know what to say,” he said, sounding tired. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Your desires,” she said, her body brimming with anxiety, her stomach wretched. “I want you to tell me them. I want to _know._ ”

And he sat down on the floor alongside the couch, his hand still on her shoulder but their faces level, and she watched as he thought, as he went through his own fantasies, and she clenched the muscles in her legs as she hoped desperately that maybe, somewhere in his mind, he was thinking the same thing she was, that he wanted to take home an ultrasound picture, that he wanted to hold a baby in his arms. 

“I didn’t want more children,” he said, speaking so carefully, being so mindful of her, “but I never expected I would meet you. And if you choose not to have the abortion, then I want to be a father again.”

He looked to her with the same expression he’d had as he told her he wanted to get to know her better, leaning against her kitchen sink, showing her that she wasn’t the man she’d assumed him to be. The warm smile, sheepish but warm, quiet and wanting, comfortably vulnerable. And she’d turned him down back then, for she’d been afraid.

“And if I do have the abortion?” she asked, and she felt her chest tighten as she realized that this was the bigger question, the one that would hurt most when he answered. _If you’re given every opportunity to move on,_ she wondered, _will you still love me?_

He bent his fingers atop her shoulder, his nails cresting against her skin, and she felt raw, wounded, bare. She felt hollow. She felt as if she could sleep for days after this conversation but simultaneously as if she would never sleep again.

“I want you in my life, Jean,” he said, then pulled his hand out from under hers, brought his fingers to her cheek; she closed her eyes as he brought his thumb against her face, the gentlest of caresses, a gesture of love. “I do.”

And she jolted with surprise as he kissed her, her eyes still closed, her surprise evident from the way he laughed against her, holding her there a second longer before pulling away. 

“You said you couldn’t trust me,” she forced out, her eyes wide open as she looked up at him, her heart racing. “You said…”

He took her hand in his, gave, “I’m learning. I think someday I will.”

“Someday?” 

Her hand was sweaty against his. He looked down at their joined hands and smiled.

“Soon,” he said, and the word felt like relief.

* * *

She asked him to carry her to bed, but he told her he couldn’t, not right away, for he’d laundered her linens, still needed to make the bed. _You washed my sheets?_ she asked, shocked, and he shrugged it off, gave _you said you were sick._ And while he made the bed, she brushed her teeth, and he promised he would look at the boiler in the morning before he left for work, and there was plenty of broth in the fridge, plus vegetable soup for when she was hungry. Had she given him more warning, he claimed he would’ve baked bread too.

And she put on silk pajamas and climbed into a bed made with clean sheets still warm from the dryer, and as she curled up beneath the comforter, the world outside growing colder as the seasons changed, she closed her eyes, relaxed for what felt like the first time in weeks. Jakob had watched Otis come in for the night and head to bed while Jean napped, and Ola and Alma were staying with friends, group projects due in the morning, so Jakob could stay the night, left his cell phone and car keys on the bedside-table, his wallet leaning against the lamp. She would clean him out a drawer in her dresser, and then, he wouldn’t leave his trousers on her floor anymore. 

When he joined her in bed, he kept to his side, but she wanted him closer, so she reached out, pulled him to her, and thankfully, he took her in his arms, warmed her up against his bare chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the scent of his soap, the argan oil his girls had convinced him to use on his face, his laundry detergent, his body. She wouldn’t wake up cold tomorrow. Because she’d set her alarm for five minutes earlier, she would have time to let him cuddle her before she needed to dress for work. 

“Hey,” she asked, the lights out, the blinds drawn, time for bed, “would you mind making pancakes in the morning?”

And she could hear the smile on his lips as he asked, “You want pancakes?”

“Yeah,” she said, her cheeks warming with embarrassment that she tried to push away. “If you don’t mind.”

He kissed her forehead, then said, “I don’t mind.”

And they were quiet for a long time, so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep, but she wanted to say one last thing before they went to bed for the evening, wanted everything to be clear between them.

“I don’t think I want to have the abortion,” she said, tone soft, a secret between the two of them.

His thumb traced circles on the small of her back. Before they broke up, he would touch her like that, and she would tense up, then move away from him, but now, she stayed.

“Okay,” he said, his one word filled with confirmation. _Okay, this is what we’re doing together now. Okay._

“There’s still a high probability that I’ll miscarry,” she added, either to keep him from hoping or to quell his fears, or maybe not to do anything for him but instead to reassure herself.

“Let’s not think about it,” he said, still stroking her back. “Go to sleep.”

And she closed her eyes and listened.


	4. Chapter 4

The following week, she overslept because she’d had hot flashes all night, only waking when her son yelled up that the mailman needed her to sign for something. When she came downstairs, robe tied tightly because she couldn’t be bothered to improve her sleepish appearance, she found a delivery man holding a bouquet of red roses, twelve addressed to Jean Milburn, no note attached, no need for one. In the kitchen, she snipped an inch off of the stems, then put the flowers into one of her mother’s vases, left them on the kitchen counter so that she would see them each time she passed by. Twelve roses, bright red, the thorns trimmed off, she brewed herself a cup of ginger tea and kept glancing back at them, flowers sent to her because it was Tuesday, flowers sent because he cared. She sipped her tea while looking at the roses, tried to quell her nausea while looking at the roses, then went upstairs and dressed while thinking about the roses, wondering if maybe she should wear red today, wondering if that was today’s lucky color.

And she had a red wrap blouse, and it was October now, a good month for warm autumnal colors, and though she knew it was taboo, she liked red paired with pink, so she wore a pair of pink trousers too and felt too bright in a good way. She wanted to be brighter. As she put on makeup for the day, she looked in the mirror and thought, _I want to glow from the inside._

She only had morning clients that day, and as she heated up lunch - Jakob made tortellini two nights ago, bringing his pasta press over to her home, and she still had leftovers - she stared at the flowers, their intricate petals, soft to the touch, bright but blending well into her home. Because the rain had finally quelled over the weekend, she went out onto the porch for lunch, but every so often, she would glance back through the glass doors and seek out the roses again, wanting to make sure they were still in the same place, wondering if any of the petals had fallen. 

To thank him for the flowers, she crouched alongside the vase, trying to put both her face and the flowers in frame for a picture, her cell phone held at arm’s length while she hoped she could operate the front-facing camera. No, she couldn’t get a good picture like this, so she brought the vase to the kitchen table, sat down behind it, and cast her face halfway behind the flowers, trying to make the picture look candid and normal, not as if she were posing. Once she managed the picture, she wrote a message to send along with it, then hesitated before sending.

_ Thank you for the flowers. _

Was that too stark, too brash? _Thank you for the flowers._ Was the period impolite? She deleted the period, then added an exclamation point instead. 

_ Thank you for the flowers! _

No, that seemed too earnest, so she deleted the exclamation point, sent the message without any punctuation. There, that was how people texted nowadays, no punctuation, she was sending the proper thanks for a lovely gift. When her phone buzzed with an incoming text message, she looked down assuming that he’d sent a response, but instead, she had a message from Maureen Groff, a quick text, something casual.

_ Hey! Yoga class in two hours, instructor is VERY FINE!!!!! Care to join me? _

Though she thought exercise would be a bad idea in her first trimester, she did an internet search for the local studio’s schedule nonetheless, and surely an afternoon gentle flow wouldn’t be too harsh. If push came to shove, then Jean would feel comfortable using a bolster and a patterned blanket to hold corpse pose for the whole hour. The nature of yoga was to provide nourishment to the body, was it not? And she’d been thinking about Maureen recently, hoping that a few weeks of separation couldn’t kill a friendship. Texting back _I’ll see you there,_ she went upstairs in search of her exercise clothes, wondering when she’d last worn such things.

By the time she was setting up her mat alongside Maureen’s, her breasts were already starting to ache within the loosest sports bra she could find, and because all of her yoga tops were tight-fitting and made with built-in support, she had to wear a big tee shirt over her leggings instead, this one free from when a sex toy company sent her a package of fun things to test out. Funny, that box had contained the vibrator she’d given Maureen, how strange for things to come full circle. Because the company was small and fringe enough not to be obvious to the rest of the class, she caught awkward glances from men in bandanas, women tightening their scrunchies, and unfortunately could imagine each person’s bedside table. She hoped they knew not to use silicone-based lubricants with the toys.

“I’m so glad you could come,” Maureen said as she brought two studio blocks over to their side-by-side mats, being courteous as she gave Jean one of the blocks. “It’s been a while!”

“Yes,” Jean conceded, sitting cross-legged and looking around at the stretching people in the studio, wondering if she should try to touch her toes or at least straighten her back, “it’s been too long.”

“How’ve you been?” Thankfully, Maureen sat cross-legged too, so Jean let her posture go slack, no need to stretch before class. “I heard about the play at school. Whew!”

Jean grimaced, gave, “It was a bit much.”

“But we’ll pay that no mind,” Maureen said, smiling. “You were trying to get back together with your boyfriend, weren’t you? How’s that going?”

But before Jean could think of an answer to that question, the teacher began class, and Jean was forced to be silent through a too-long child’s pose and the teacher’s speech about _being in the moment_ and _getting out of your thinking mind_ , two things that Jean was not in the mood to do as the teacher had them hold downward dog for _five whole breaths._ Seriously, when had she last exercised? Though she knew better than to compare herself to the muscular men and women in the room, she went into the first warrior pose with her thighs shaking from effort and thought, _this is absolutely ridiculous._ And Zumba-training Maureen held the pose with ease, then transitioned to the second warrior pose with a cinematic grace Jean hadn’t expected to see, and during the next downward dog, Jean kept thinking, _that was so beautiful, the way she turned her wrists. That was so beautiful._

“I’ll come around to give helpful corrections,” the teacher said while the class held half-pigeon on the right, and of course he came to Jean first, gently pressing his hands against the small of her back, whispering to her that she should elongate her spine. When she stretched out, the relief came in a comfortable wave, all that _sitting_ all day, she really needed to stretch more. And she could do this every day, couldn’t she? A hip-opening pose, a back stretch. If the weather was nice enough, then she could go out on the porch in the morning and stretch after she woke up, then have her coffee or tea while looking down at the river below.

Corpse pose felt best of all, and she was thankful for the chance to slow down her breathing, to center herself, to close her eyes and simply _be_. Though the stresses of the previous weeks had for the most part quelled, she still hadn’t taken a chance to calm herself down, instead had balanced her no-new-clients work life with having Jakob stay over whenever he could, cooking dinner for her and her son and _finally_ fixing her boiler and leaving all of his messes in his one drawer in her dresser, the floor now free of spare change. She could relax while curled up with him in bed, but this kind of relaxation, one rooted in herself and her alone, was important too, and she needed to balance the two, the interpersonal and the self, interactions with others and interactions with her own mind and body. 

At eight weeks, she had to brace herself as she sat up from corpse pose, her breasts so sore that she winced with the movement. Maureen wanted to go to the pressed juice cafe nextdoor after class, and Jean joined her but excused herself to the bathroom after they ordered, ducked into a stall and gently pulled off her bra, shoving the wretched thing into her purse, mouthing _begone_ at it as she put back on her shirt and jacket. By the time she went in search of Maureen in the cafe’s seating area, their drinks had already been delivered, a green concoction all too similar to Jakob’s morning smoothies in front of where Maureen sat, Jean’s mixed berry smoothie in front of the seat alongside Maureen. The place was filled with earth tones and sprawling vines from potted plants, and they were seated next to big windows that caught plenty of light but didn’t force either of them to squint through a glare. 

“I’m glad we can chat,” Maureen said as Jean sat down, her breasts still sore but thankfully not constricted by the damned bra anymore. “I want to hear all about your _petit ami_.”

And though Jean wasn’t one for gossip, didn’t even like telling her therapist about how things were going with Jakob, she twirled the straw in her smoothie and found that she wanted to tell Maureen everything, even the finer details, even the things she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. But wouldn’t it be harmless to tell Maureen about the pregnancy? _No,_ she decided, _for it may be harmless for Maureen, but it’ll be harmful to family members if they’re the last to know._

“Well,” Jean gave, then went into the shortest version she could manage: she realized that she’d made a mistake, she went to his home and told him how she felt about him, and now, he stays over some nights and makes her dinner and kisses her, only kisses her. Though she didn’t tell Maureen about their limits at the moment - they kissed, and they kissed _a lot_ , but neither of them had initiated sex again, and she wondered if he felt as nervous as she did about the prospect of another _first time,_ at how they would eventually need to talk about their feelings surrounding sex - she found herself thinking about kissing, about the strange art of it, about how she suddenly felt so uknowledgeable.

“It’s strange,” Maureen said, nodding in agreement and smiling in a girlish way. “I’ve been going on dates, not even important ones, and most of them are duds, mind you. But the _kissing._ I forgot that it was so much fun.”

“I did too,” Jean said, thinking of Jakob in the kitchen right after Otis left for school, hands on her hips, kissing her lazily while their tea brewed. She thought of Jakob in bed, kissing her goodnight for just a beat too long, making her wonder if things would escalate. And she liked goodbye kisses the most, his toolbelt draped over his shoulder, his attention solely on her. “I forgot that it wasn’t just part of sex.”

“It seems ridiculous, but it’s easy to forget,” Maureen said in agreement, sipping her green juice. “And there’s nothing better than being reintroduced.”

“Even if the guy is a dud?” Jean asked, smiling.

“At least your guy isn’t a dud,” Maureen said, kicking Jean’s shoe underneath the table. “Do you think things will work out between you two this time?”

Though she assumed her answer would be an emphatic yes, she found herself hesitating instead, picturing predictable outcomes, going over in seconds all the ways she could lose him. What if she miscarried? The emotional toll aside, she wondered if they together could work through a medical problem of that kind. Would she become guarded again, pushing him away and wishing to be alone? Or would he push her away instead, afraid of loving another woman whose life might be cut short? And then there were their families, none of whom knew about the pregnancy yet, and she wondered what would happen when she and Jakob discussed the proper time to tell the kids. Though she firmly believed that they should wait until after she was past sixteen weeks, she wondered if telling the kids so late was a good idea, if emotional courtesy would between now and then turn into secret-keeping. If Jakob wanted to tell them earlier, she had nothing but the scientific reality of pregnancy at an older age to reaffirm her beliefs.

“I hope so,” Jean said, trying to leave it all at that.

“Oh, you look so somber,” Maureen said, shaking her head, no time for that. “If you’re that invested, I’m sure something good will come of it.”

“Yeah,” Jean said, unsure of what else to say.

“Do you love him?”

She’d thought about the _love_ question that morning while she looked at the roses he sent her, and because of the timing, because things were so new and so old simultaneously, she found that there was no simple answer. 

“I think there ought to be something in between a crush and love,” Jean said, voicing her thoughts from the morning. “It’s more than a crush, yes, but I don’t know enough about him to say that I love him. But then he leaves for the day, and I don’t know what to say, no _goodbye, I love you_ because we haven’t said that yet, and I don’t know how to hang up the phone either, or how to tell him I care without taking out a thesaurus.”

Across the table, Maureen smiled, giddy with hearing about Jean’s love life. Jean had never been so relieved to have a friend.

“And I could tell him that I love him, but it feels too soon, too brash,” Jean added. “And then there’s part of me that says _embrace this moment, it’s all you’ve got,_ but it’s important to wait too, isn’t it? I don’t want to say it when I still have doubts. I want to mean it, and right now, I would mean it, but I wouldn’t mean it as fully as I would in, say, a month from now, for right now I only love what he’s shown me. And when I find out new things, the first thing I think of is that I love him, but it’s a growing love, not a clear, precise love. I don’t know how to express that without saying too much.”

“Well, close enough!” Maureen said, still smiling. “You’ve got the hard part down.”

Furrowing her brow, Jean asked, “What do you mean?”

“The _caring,_ ” Maureen said, “you have that in your relationship, and if that’s there, then everything else will come eventually, if not because it’s inevitable then because you’re willing to fight for it. You two will be just fine.”

And as she drove home, Jean felt hopeful about their future.

* * *

That night, Otis rushed down the stairs in his dress shoes while Jean read on the couch and Jakob made mushroom risotto. 

“Walk, please,” Jean said, not looking up from her book as Otis slowed down through the living room, then headed for the door.

When Otis opened the front door, Jakob yelled from the kitchen, “Where are you going?”

Ducking back inside, Otis looked toward Jean on the couch, shouted over, “I’m going out.”

Though she didn’t want to get up, Jean stood and walked toward him, asking, “Out where, exactly?”

“I’m going out with a friend,” Otis said, his motions jerky in the way they always were when he felt anxious.

Jean went to cross her arms, but her breasts were too painful for such a thing, so her arms dangled down at her sides instead, looking awkward. 

“Which friend?” Jean asked.

“You don’t know them,” Otis said, then glanced back at the door. “I’m going to be late.”

“Be back before curfew,” Jean gave with a concise nod, then headed back toward the couch.

“Mum?” Otis said with confusion as Jean realized that she’d never given him a curfew before.

“No later than nine,” she brushed off, and then, he was gone in a flash, Jakob still stirring risotto in the kitchen, the world still turning.

Why had he worn a suit? And since when didn’t she know one of his friends? 

“He’s going on a date,” Jakob called from the kitchen, as if able to hear her thoughts. “He is not very good at hiding how he feels.”

“A date?”

Jean turned toward him, then winced, the breast pain almost overwhelming in its constancy. At least she would be able to take a hot shower in the morning, relieve some of the swelling. 

“Yes, of course,” Jakob said, serenely stirring his pot. “He has a crush.”

She furrowed her brow, thinking back through her conversations with her son, but she couldn’t find the mention of any crush, hardly even any mentions of girls. Maybe it was a boy, then, but she didn’t think Otis was gay, and though he held plenty of things back from her, she sincerely doubted he wouldn’t come out to her. A girl, then, maybe a girl at school, and she thought of her son in his suit, the jittery way he left the house, and wished she’d hugged him and told him to relax, patting him on the shoulder as he left, maybe recommending that he pick up a bouquet of flowers on his way there. She knew how good it felt to be given flowers. 

“He never told me,” she said as Jakob spooned the risotto into bowls, garnishing with fresh herbs from his garden, bringing the bowls over to the kitchen table. “He hardly tells me anything these days.”

“Teenagers can be like that,” Jakob said as he came over to the couch, sat down alongside her. “They don’t want you to know anything.”

“Are your daughters like that?” she asked, and he brought his palm to her hip, always gentle, always warm. “Do they not tell you anything either?”

“No,” he said in his stark way, almost making her laugh. “Ola likes to tell me things, and Alma does too, but she holds back more. She says _papa_ and shuts the door to her room in my face.”

“When are we going to tell them?”

He furrowed his brow, but she didn’t know how to clarify. 

“I don’t know,” he said, and she didn’t know either, for eight more weeks was too long, but anything else was far too short. “When do you want to tell them?”

Taking a deep breath, she gave, “It’s best not to tell anyone before sixteen weeks. I wouldn’t want to tell them before then.”

“When is sixteen weeks?”

She’d asked her doctor exactly that question, so she knew with ease. 

“The end of November,” she said. “Right at the end.”

“I’ll need to tell Alma first,” he said, then clarified, “about us.”

“Us?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Not even that we dated?”

“No, not at all.”

Though she knew she shouldn’t, she felt uncomfortable with that reveal. Why hadn’t he told his daughter? Hadn’t Ola mentioned such a thing to Alma? 

“Why not?” Jean asked, trying not to sound insulted.

He hesitated, and she wanted to say, _fuck risotto._ Actually, she didn’t want to know his answer.

“I was unsure,” Jakob said, slow and measured, so fucking conscientious, “of how serious things would be between us, and I didn’t want to tell my daughters before I was sure.”

“Yeah, okay,” she gave, then stood up, walking aimlessly to the glass doors, looking over at the reading nook by the windows. She thought of the lyrics to a Nico song: _please don’t confront me with my failures, I had not forgotten them._

Thinking of the girls, she remembered the face mask, Alma’s pearl barrettes, Ola coming into her makeshift office at Moordale and expressing deep fears. She thought of herself at fourteen, of her mother’s boyfriend, an awkward shared dinner, she knew better than to tell her mother that she thought the boyfriend was dull. And of course her mother never remarried, of course her mother never wanted to, but she wondered if her teenage self had influenced such a thing, had prematurely broken up relationships. 

“You only told Ola because she...caught us,” Jean said, wanting to cross her arms over her chest but stopping herself. “You weren’t going to tell anyone.”

“Jean-”

“I’m not upset,” she said even though she was upset. “You were right. Things ended. You made the right choice.”

She turned toward the kitchen but averted her gaze from him. 

“Dinner’s going to get cold,” she said, then headed into the kitchen, dropping the subject.

And they sat alongside each other and ate in the tense silence, and though Jakob kept trying to speak up, he stopped himself before he found the proper words, stirring his risotto, not knowing what to say. Though she knew better than to dwell on such things, she thought of how he must’ve denied things to his daughters, told them he was out of town for work when he stayed over at her house, creating some elaborate story that explained his absences. And now, they would have to tell their children that Jean was pregnant, and Jean doubted that conversation would go well, three teenagers learning that the parents they hadn’t known had been dating were going to have another child. Did Jakob’s girls know about the vasectomy? She doubted they did, but still, she figured they hadn’t expected him to father another woman’s child.

And she thought of their mother and tensed, a woman she’d never known, someone she’d seen pictures of at spare moments in Jakob’s home. She knew that their mother had died when Ola was twelve and Alma ten, and though it had been years since her passing, she doubted that wound would ever truly heal. Would she be imposing? Would the girls be angry, thinking that Jean wished to replace their mother? Of course she didn’t intend to replace their mother, but she doubted they would understand that as soon as they learned that Jean was pregnant. And Otis, she wondered if he would be judgmental, if he would harp on her for not using a condom or, better yet, simply putting off finding a new form of hormonal birth control. She wondered how his date was going, if he’d taken this girl he had a crush on to a restaurant, if he’d brought flowers. She wondered if she was going to have a boy or girl, then wondered how she could possibly prefer one to the other.

“You have to tell Alma before the end of the week,” Jean said, asserting...dominance? She didn’t know what she was asserting, but she asserted it, holding her head high, angling the tip of her nose up. She wasn’t going to take _no_ for an answer.

“Okay,” he gave, angling his spoon so that he could scoop the last bit of risotto from his bowl, “I will.”

With her bowl empty, she waited for him to finish so that she could wash their dishes, but he took her bowl first, going to the sink before she could protest, and she sunk back into her chair, feeling somehow guilty. And she _was_ guilty, for he’d been right not to tell his daughters about her, but this was her second chance, her fresh start. She didn’t deserve to feel guilty when they’d agreed to try again. 

“You shouldn’t be washing the dishes,” she lamented, her form of an apology. “You cooked.”

“I don’t mind,” he gave as he scrubbed, and thankfully, there were only the stovepot and their two bowls to wash, so he finished quickly, the pot left to dry and her frilly spatulas hanging on their rack. Last week, he even cleaned her bathroom without her asking. Though he spent his whole day remodeling bathrooms, he cleaned her bathroom after hours nonetheless.

She was still sitting at the kitchen table and feeling upset when he took her by surprise and touched her arm, making her wince as he accidentally grazed her breast. Unfortunately, he mistook her pain for anger.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding uncomfortably sincere. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“No, it’s alright,” she said, gently pushing his hand away and looking up at him. “I’m not sad; I’m just in pain.”

“Pain?”

And his eyes grew so big, and she felt her heart pound, this good man, this man who cared about where she hurt, this man who didn’t want to tell his daughters until things were serious. This man who would abandon unappreciated risotto and the fight they were currently having in order to ease her pain.

“Where?” he asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder but hesitating and taking his hand away.

“My...breasts,” she said.

Why did that feel so awkward to say? In her practice she used that word plenty, and even outside of work, she felt free to use it, but as she spoke to him, she found herself blushing with embarrassment at the word. And in the end, maybe it wasn’t the word itself that made her uncomfortable but the insinuation that he would ease pain there, that pain there existed at all.

“Lie down,” he said, “on the couch.”

She grimaced, asked, “Why?”

“Warm compress,” he said, finding clean dishtowels in the kitchen, running the tap until the water turned warm. “Take off your shirt.”

Looking at him incredulously, she said, “No, not right now.”

“But it hurts,” he insisted as he dampened one of the dishcloths, steam rising from the sink. “Lie down. Please.”

And she could’ve been combative, could’ve insisted that he go home, could’ve stayed angry, but he was right; she was in pain, and though her first instinct was to hide, she knew that, deep down, she wanted him to take care of her. Or, rather, she wanted for the care he offered to her to be proportional to the care she offered to him, and she couldn’t support him if she never let him support her, or that was what her degrees were telling her as she sat down on the couch and unbuttoned her blouse, pulled her camisole up over her head, reached back to unhook the loosest of her padded bras’ clasps. Then, she was half-naked on the couch, lounging back as he came over with warm, wet cloths with which to soothe her, and she felt her heart pound as he kneeled beside the couch and stretched out one of the compresses, wondered what he was thinking about as he looked from her breasts to the dishcloths in his hands. 

“I’ll be very gentle,” he said, looking to her for permission as he held a wet cloth above her chest. 

She didn’t deserve him, and what hurt was that they both knew it. What hurt was that he still cared for her anyway.

“Okay,” she said, her voice sounding so small as she gave him permission.

And he hardly touched her at all, gently resting warm compresses over her breasts, looking up at her and waiting for some sign of relief. Even if the effect were purely psychosomatic, she found that the heat was calming her body down, centering her; she could focus on warmth against her chest, on Jakob’s hand resting on her wrist, at the way he stared at her as if waiting for a medical miracle. 

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes, much better,” she said as she relaxed against the couch, as she slowed her breathing. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding to himself, reassuring himself, “okay.”

She took a deep breath, then another. She stared up at the ceiling while he sat down on the floor beside the couch. She closed her eyes and thought of how excruciating pain turned all human beings into children, crying and speaking in such small sentences, _it hurts, please make it stop._

“I’m only going to say this once,” she gave, speaking slowly, trying to be conscientious, “at least for right now. And I’m not sure how to navigate how this feels, so I know that this won’t sound right, but I want to say it and feel that I should. Okay?”

He furrowed his brow but nodded, said, “Okay.”

And she looked at him, really looked at him, the wrinkles on his forehead and stubble on his cheeks, his big blue eyes, she could imagine those big blue eyes on a baby’s face with such ease. Speaking was easy, but still, she hesitated because she knew she couldn’t take back such words. Wasn’t that the point of them? Wasn’t that why she wanted to speak in the first place? She took a deep breath and felt a bead of water slip from the cloths on her breasts down her ribcage, warm and soothing, he touched her with so much care that the words felt close by, simple, obvious. But could she say them? And if she said them, would she mean them?

_Of course I would,_ she thought, then exhaled and looked him in the eyes. 

“I love you,” she managed, and before he could react, before he could understand, she pressed on, clarified. “And I know I don’t know enough about you to feel that way, but from what I’ve seen, I _do_ feel that way. And it feels premature, but I don’t know what to do in the meantime. I’m at the halfway point for something that has no halfway point. I don’t know what I could say instead.”

She was bare to him, save for two washcloths on her chest. At least her soreness was waning. At least telling him such things no longer made her feel as if she were about to explode.

“I don’t know what to say,” he gave, his brow furrowed, almost ashamed. 

Of course, she wasn’t surprised that he couldn’t say the same thing, for he spoke sparingly and always tried not to cause harm. Once he meant it, he would say it too, but he wouldn’t speak up until the truth was so constant and clear, until he knew beyond a doubt that he loved her. She likened those words coming from him to a marriage proposal, the naming of a child, the most heartfelt congratulations. If he loved her, she would mean something to him, to his whole family, to his whole life. Though he wasn’t there yet, she still knew that they would be okay, and she thought, _maybe he’ll be there soon enough. Maybe we both will be._

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said as she reached out and took his hand, squeezed for reassurance. “It’s okay.”

And when Otis returned from his maybe-a-date, she and Jakob were curled up together on the couch, a hot water bottle clung to her chest while he ever-so-gently held her close, the credits rolling on the movie they’d chosen for the evening. She said hello to her son while he brushed her off, awkward and disconcerted, a first date kind of nervous. Though she wanted to ask, she knew that she should give him some space, so she curled back up with her boyfriend - and she was going to say that out loud sooner or later, but at least for now she’d mastered saying it in her mind - and held the hot water bottle in whatever position wouldn’t cause pain. 

“I have an idea of when I want to tell them,” she said to Jakob, voice quiet even though Otis could never hear her from upstairs. 

“Our children?” Jakob asked, looking down at her.

She nodded up to him, gave, “After I reach fourteen weeks.” 

“That’s earlier than you said before.”

“I know,” she gave, nodding, “but I don’t want it to become a secret. And I...want them to feel heard.”

Though she doubted he would disagree, she still was relieved when he nodded in confirmation, set that date in mind. In the middle of November, before examinations began, before the heightened emotions of the holidays, they would sit down with their children and tell them, and though there would still be two weeks before Jean felt secure in the pregnancy - _if_ the pregnancy continued at all, she reminded herself - she thought that it would be the right time nonetheless, early enough to back out, early enough to listen. 

“I think you should come for dinner on Thursday,” he said, “and I’ll tell Alma the next day. I think it would be easier if she knew you a little better first.”

As Jean thought about dinner with the Nymans, more good food and sweet company, she knew she couldn’t turn down such an invitation, but she still winced at the thought of sitting across from Alma, knowing what the girl would hear the next day. But Alma was Jakob’s daughter, and Jean trusted that he knew what would be best for the girl, a proper introduction beforehand, more than just a sudden dinner or impromptu cookie purchase. Maybe Jean could ask the girl what she really liked.

“Okay,” Jean agreed, “I can do that.”

“If I ask you to make dessert-”

“No, no,” she said immediately, “horrible idea.”

“Okay,” he gave, laughing, “great.”

And in bed that night he swore he wouldn’t touch her not because he didn’t want to but because he didn’t want to hurt her, but at her insistence, he was her big spoon anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Though Jean couldn’t make dessert to bring to dinner with the Nymans, she remembered Alma at their last dinner together saying that she liked mochi ice cream, and thankfully, the local health food store kept chocolate and green tea flavors in stock. As she drove out to their home, she kept the two boxes of ice cream on her passenger’s seat, glancing over at them whenever she slowed at a stop sign, making sure nothing had melted. That afternoon, she’d spent almost an hour deciding on what to wear, something formal enough to make her appear posh but something normal enough to make her seem as if she wasn’t trying too hard, and finally, she settled on loose trousers and a button-down silk blouse, her normal, her average, what she would have worn had she not felt such great pressure to impress. She parked in front of the house, and though the van wasn’t there - she was early anyway - she spotted Ola in the garden, a big bucket hanging from a lanyard around her neck, a sun hat shadowing her face. When she saw Jean, she waved with an awkward smile. Had Jakob not told her that Jean was coming for dinner? Leaving the car, Jean headed over to say hello to Ola, wondered where the girl’s father was.

“I’ve got some bad news,” Ola said.

Jean looked down at the bucket hanging from Ola’s neck; the blue pail was filled with fresh raspberries from their garden’s bushes.

“Okay,” Jean gave, bringing her hands to her pockets before realizing that this pair of pants lacked pockets, shrugging the gesture off awkwardly. “What happened?”

“So,” Ola said, bringing her hands together in front of her body, “Dad told me about the chat you two had.”

Jean stilled. The chat? Which part of the chat? The part about her coming to dinner, or-

“He told me that there would be dinner tonight, then a chance to break the news to my sister tomorrow,” Ola explained, “but last night, when Dad said you were coming to dinner, Al asked if you were dating Dad, and...he couldn’t lie to her, I suppose. I don’t even know what I’d have said if she'd asked me the same question.”

And this was bad news, so Jean had an inkling of what would come next.

“Either way, she didn’t take it well,” Ola gave. “It’s nothing against you, I swear. She’s...she can be testy about these things.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean said, looking down, feeling that all-too-familiar chest tightness return. “I didn’t mean-”

“No, don’t apologize,” Ola said, shaking her head. “This isn’t your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, really. It’s just that she’s…”

Sighing, Ola tried to brush off the subject, looked back at the raspberry bushes. Jean held her arms awkwardly at her sides, the breast pain still too great for her to cross her arms over her chest, the forcible change in her anxious ticks making her feel even more anxious.

“For real, though,” Ola gave as she plucked berries from the bushes, dropped them into her pail, “it’s not your fault. And I know it’s kind of impossible, but you shouldn’t take offense.”

“Are they inside?” Jean asked. “Your father and sister.”

“No, they’re...out.”

“Out?”

“She’s my sister,” Ola said uncomfortably, the social unacceptability of having boundaries. “I don’t want to say something she wouldn’t want me to say.”

“Understood,” Jean managed, then turned to look back at her car, the passenger’s seat, two boxes of ice cream with ingredient lists in Japanese. Of course it wouldn’t be enough. Why had she thought it would be enough?

Though the day was sunny, it held an October chill nonetheless, the brightness outside misleading; Jean wished she’d worn a sweater of some kind, a shawl maybe, something to curl up in. Or maybe she felt awkward standing next to Ola in front of raspberry bushes while the girl dropped berries into her bucket, the last harvest of the season, the leaves on the trees around them starting to change. A season of change, a shift, Jean was due in May, and she thought of how things would change over time, baggy sweaters in winter, long wrap dresses in spring because nothing else would be comfortable. When she was pregnant with Otis, she tried wearing Remi’s clothes as hers stopped fitting, but his cologne would get stuck in the fibers and make her feel ill, and he would complain that he never had something clean to wear, so she went to the shops and bought a five-pack of men’s tee shirts instead, then put them through the washer seven whole times in hope that they would feel worn.

“I guess I should head home,” Jean gave, nodding uncomfortably, wondering if her passenger’s seat was covered in melted green tea ice cream, wondering if the scent would stick in the seats and remind her of what could have been. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Ola tilted her head as she looked at Jean, said, “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

And Jean smiled uncomfortably, clasped her hands, nervous ticks, any and all that didn’t touch her chest. 

“Really,” Ola insisted, “you haven’t done anything wrong. Please don’t apologize.”

“Okay,” Jean gave, then turned to look back at her car, starting to perform her exit. Here, she would nod at Ola as a goodbye, and then, she would turn on her heels and walk leisurely toward her car. She never locked it, so she would slip into the driver’s seat with ease, and she would wave sweetly at Ola before she went down the driveway and left the house behind.

“Do you want to make jam with me?”

Jean furrowed her brow with the surprise, asked, “What?”

“Last berries of the season,” Ola said, pointing down at the bucket. “Dad, Al, and I were supposed to make jam today. He wanted to give you some as a gift, made labels with your name on them and everything.”

Ice cream seeping into the cracks of her leather seats, how he told her that she shouldn’t try to make dessert. Though she understood why she hadn’t, she’d never slept over in his home. She’d never given him a gift, even a little one. When he came over, he fixed things, built her shelves, cleaned her bathroom and washed her sheets and put in her laundry and brought her fresh pajamas when the hot flashes took over. He made little labels to put on jam jars for her. He sent her roses, just because.

“Okay,” Jean said, “that would be nice.”

“You’re dressed too well, though,” Ola gave, gesturing to Jean’s silks. “I’ll give you one of Dad’s shirts. And an apron.”

They sectioned out half of the berries for freezing, portioning hundred-gram bags and slipping the bags into crevasses in the freezer, anywhere that wasn’t occupied by Jakob’s classic ice cream sandwiches and the two boxes of mochi that Jean brought for Alma. When Ola dropped the massive canner down on the stove, Jean jumped with surprise, so Ola laughed, asked if Jean had ever done this before, and yes, she had done this before, she could remember her mother making jam in the kitchen so many years ago, frilly apron, reading glasses. Jean must’ve been four or five at the time, for she and her mother were still living with Jean’s grandmother, her father having died a few years prior. Grandma’s apron, a big pot on the stove, Jean was too small to see how the jars bobbed in the hot water bath, but she could remember the way her mother held a masher over the berries, the way she strained out the seeds. And then commercial jams were inexpensive enough that the practice went out of fashion, so they never made jam together again.

With one of Jakob’s shirts replacing her silk one and one of his aprons over top, Jean poured sugar into a bowl on top of a food scale, following the recipe on the pectin box to a tee. 

“It won’t firm up if we get the measurements wrong,” Ola said as she brought a big box of glass jars down onto the table, the sound again making Jean jump with surprise. Ola's apron was colored like the Swedish flag and had printed words on its front that Jean couldn't read, and she kept a wooden spoon in the front pocket of her apron, practiced, just in case. “I’ll start sterilizing if you start on the raspberries.”

There was an art to timing such things properly: first, the jars and lids needed to be sterilized in boiling water, but almost as soon as the jars were dry, they needed to add the jam to the jars, but the jam needed time to cook first, the sugar and pectin going into the raspberry mixture after certain intervals. If the jars weren’t ready in time, then the jam would be overcooked, but if the jars came into contact with anything unsterilized while waiting on the jam, then they would need to boil the jars all over again. Though Ola explained the canning process with ease, Jean felt her head swim as she stirred the cooking jam on the stove while Ola used a pair of tongs to lift the cans from the water bath. And when the jam was ready, Jean tried to fill the jars using a ladle but kept spilling jam over the sides of the jars, forcing Ola to wipe the sides clean. By the time the filled jars were sealed and brought back to the hot water bath, Jean had sweat beading on her forehead, the process overwhelming and exhausting and far too warm, but when she looked over at Ola, she found the girl looking the same way, and as their gazes met, they both started to laugh.

“Totally not the point of this,” Ola said as she watched the timer for the jars in the water bath, “but I’m desperate for a peanut butter sandwich.”

“How long does this take to set?” Jean asked.

“Like, two days.”

And somehow that was funny; Jean shook her head, said, “That’s a long time to wait for a peanut butter sandwich.”

“We’ve got some of last year’s still,” Ola gave. “I’ll crack if open if you promise to have some too.”

Crusty baguette, the kind of peanut butter that needed to be stirred, Ola could open a jar of jam with ease, the can-opener looking purely decorative in her hands. These were things she forgot to pay attention to: the sound of bread being cut, the scent of sourdough, how satisfying it was to spread preserves through bubbles and cracks. With the jam jars left to cool on the counter, they sat together on the couch with little sandwiches on baguette because that was the only bread in the house, and Jean stared down at where her thumbs touched her crusts. How was it that she’d forgotten to pay attention to food?

“This is really good,” Jean said as she held a little sandwich in one hand, her open hand resting below her mouth and trying to catch crumbs, for this _was_ good, tart-sweet raspberries and a too-thick layer of nut butter because Ola insisted that she needed more. They sat cross-legged and faced the windows, looking out at the garden beyond. 

Pausing first to chew and swallow, Ola said, “Dad takes a lot of pride in the garden. He smuggled the lingonberries out of Sweden, and let me tell you, he’s a horrible liar. The border patrol agent asked if he brought back any contraband from a trip we took, and you could just watch as his face turned red.”

And Jean imagined the scene so easily, Jakob with berry seeds shoved in his pockets, thinking of how sweet such fruits would taste when he harvested them from his garden but also wondering if he would be put on a no-fly list. 

“Either way, he got them through,” Ola said, “and now, he thinks it’s the best story ever. Like he’s some kind of hero for smuggling seeds across the border. Whenever we have someone over and they eat those berries, he tells the story and acts like he’s _so_ cool.”

“Do you still have family in Sweden?” Jean asked, then licked raspberry jam off of her thumb.

“Oh, loads,” Ola said, nodding. “All of Dad’s siblings, my grandparents, a whole slew of cousins. It’s a bit overwhelming, actually. We used to travel there every other Christmas, but we haven’t gone back in a while.”

Ola stood and went over to one of the bookshelves against the wall, stood on tiptoe and tapped her fingertip across different photograph albums until she found the proper one, then pulled it out and brought the book over to the couch, opening up to the middle pages and leaving the book on the cushion between them.

“This,” Ola put her finger down on a plastic-sleeved picture in the book, “is Dad’s younger sister, Saga, and next to her are his older brothers, Nils and Arvid. And Dad is in the middle, obviously.”

In the picture, the four siblings wore winter clothes and stood in the snow outside, and though they wore hats and scarves, thick parkas and warm mittens, Jean could see the family resemblance nonetheless. Jakob was the shortest of the brothers, Arvid the tallest and clearly the most muscular, Nils lankier and far more bearded than either of his brothers. Despite the gender difference, Jean could see so much of Jakob in Saga, the same smile, the same bright eyes. 

“I think that picture’s from Christmas when I was six, maybe seven,” Ola gave, then turned the page, looking for other photographs. She pointed to another, then said, “I think this is the last time we got everyone - well, _almost_ everyone - together for a picture.”

She recognized Jakob, his wife, and their two little girls immediately, the picture posed in someone’s living room, kitchen chairs dragged in so that the photographer could properly pose the picture. The four siblings, their spouses and children, the parents standing behind the couch centered in the picture. Back then, the girls had been little enough to suck their thumbs or cling to their parents, who sat off to the side in kitchen chairs, the smiles on their faces awkward as they tried to control two children under four years old. Arvid had six children and a wife who was clearly the head of the household, Nils looked uncomfortable as he brought his arm around his own small wife on the couch, and Saga was forced to sit on the arm on the couch because Arvid’s children took up too much space.

“Did you ever have times like this as a kid?” Ola asked as she ran her finger from one side of the picture to the other. “Everyone piled into one house for a holiday, air mattresses in the living room, four people in each bedroom?”

Jean shook her head, gave, “I was an only child, as were both of my parents.”

“Mum was an only child too,” Ola said, looking down at her mother in the picture. “Dad said that she was so nervous the first time she met his family, and I mean his _whole_ family, not just his parents or something. No, it was everyone all at once, but she managed.”

In the picture, the mother was holding Alma, still so little, and though there wasn’t any resemblance in the picture, Jean could see such great resemblance in Alma nowadays to her mother back then, the same face shape, the same eyes, the same hair, but the mother’s smile was all Ola’s. 

“I miss her a lot,” Ola admitted, voice growing quiet, a secret she didn’t share with many people. “I don’t really know if that’s going to go away.”

And she looked to Jean as if Jean held the answer, either because Jean had lost her mother when Otis was two or because Jean was older and wiser or maybe because Jean had psychological degrees. And Jean did have the answer as a result of those three things, but somehow it felt like betrayal to tell Ola the truth.

“It doesn’t really go away, not entirely,” Jean gave, telling the truth anyway, “but it doesn’t feel the same. It’s not acute anymore. Instead, you feel her around you, and you know she’s there, but you’ve also moved on, if that makes sense. You think that you wish she were here for something, and then, you realize that, in some way, she is. And it still hurts all too often, and you still wish you could ask her so many questions, but you know that what she gave you while she still could is enough. And you know she believes in you, no matter what challenges you face.”

Ola nodded as she looked down at the photographs in the album, a solemn nod, an uncomfortable kind of acceptance.

“My sister took her death really hard,” Ola said, “and it hasn’t been easy for any of us as a result. I mean, she was still a kid when Mum died. I don’t think she’s ever really understood it.”

Was that why Alma had been so angry? Of course it was, and that was likely why Jakob hadn’t told her about Jean in the first place. Had Jean lost her mother at twelve, she doubted she would’ve accepted any of her father’s romantic conquests, ever. 

“Really, it’s not about you,” Ola insisted, the thousandth time, the words echoing in Jean’s mind. “She would be angry regardless of who it was. She’s still so young, and so scared, and…”

Jean didn’t need to hear an ending to that sentence in order to understand. No matter how lightly Jean could tread, no matter how often she insisted that she never meant to replace or overshadow the girls’ mother, Alma would still be upset, for her mother was gone, and her father was moving on, if not because he wanted to then because his wife would have wanted him to. Jean could understand how hard such a thing would be to accept.

“For the record, though,” Ola added, “I’m glad it’s you.”

At those words, Jean stilled, that strange chest pain returning. She had crumbs on her trousers. She was still wearing Jakob’s shirt, bright red and flaunting his business’ logo. Her mouth still tasted like raspberries.

“You’re...nice,” Ola elaborated, then tried to find better words. “You’re understanding. You’re the kind of person who friends consider family. I appreciate that a lot.”

Jean’s hands were shaking; she clenched them into fists, tried to appear calm.

“You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that,” Jean gave, and the sincerity made her wince, made her wish she could take back the words.

Ola closed the album and saved the stories for another day.

* * *

“I need you to be honest with me,” Jean said in therapy that week, her hands folded on her lap, her body tense. 

She wanted Catherine’s help, but at the same time, she thought of her last round of sessions with Catherine all those years ago, how she eventually left her appointments realizing that nothing Catherine said in the sessions would ultimately help regarding Jean’s decisions. The question: should she let her son maintain a close relationship with his father? The answer: Catherine has no emotional attachment to this son or his father, so she’ll never be able to provide one. Inevitably, Jean would learn that her problems were beyond the scope of a therapist’s practices, and she would need to think through them on her own, then solve them on her own, but still, she wished Catherine would give her directions and permission, exactly what would work for her current problem.

“I’ll try my best,” Catherine gave, but Jean knew that Catherine wouldn’t bullshit her, wouldn’t hold back. Catherine, of course, would tell the truth, and she would tell the truth while wearing a poncho, and she would tell the truth with unwashed hair dry-shampooed and coiffed into a bun. Catherine would always tell the truth.

“Am I making a horrible mistake?”

And it felt so raw to speak those words, to ask the therapist across from her for a pure, unadulterated opinion, but Jean needed to know what Catherine thought. Given that Jean couldn’t tell anyone else about the pregnancy, about how Alma didn’t like her at all, she needed to know _someone’s_ opinion other than her own.

“Do _you_ think you’re making a horrible mistake?” Catherine asked, and Jean shook her head.

“If anything,” Jean gave, “I think...everything is new, and these things take time. I can’t expect this girl to like me immediately. I can’t expect her to know that I’m not trying to replace her mother. Or to steal her father, for that matter.”

“Do you think things will get better?” Catherine asked.

“Of course I do,” Jean said. “I’m just not sure what to do in the meantime.”

“Have you spoken to your boyfriend about it yet?” Catherine asked, and for once, the term _boyfriend_ didn’t want Jean wince.

Shaking her head, Jean gave, “He’s sent me messages, and I’ve sent messages back, but I think he needs some space too.”

“You could always ask him what he thinks you could do to help.”

“Yes, I could.”

“The grief from the mother’s death must still be fresh,” Catherine said. “You have to tread lightly.”

“I know,” Jean said, nodding. “I’m trying.”

“ _Really_ lightly.”

“His older daughter talked to me about their mother a little,” Jean added, then wondered why she bothered defending herself.

“Still, that’s their _mother,_ ” Catherine said, tone authoritative. “If your son were in a similar situation, you would be defensive, wouldn’t you?”

And she would, and she understood why Jakob didn’t want to come over, and she understood that Alma’s discomfort with their relationship was largely unrelated to the relationship itself, but still, she wanted so badly to stand in front of the girl and say, _I will never replace your mother. I won’t even try. I know I’ll never compare, and I never really intended to compare in the first place. But I care a lot about your father, and though I don’t know you very well, I care a lot about you too. Can’t we build on that?_

When she returned home from therapy, no more clients for the rest of the day, slow cooker chili for dinner because the fall weather made her crave comfort food, she checked her phone and found no new messages. Though she’d thrown away most of the roses as they started to wilt, she pressed two between the pages of a psychology textbook. Thankfully, the breast pain was starting to wane, and though she struggled to fit most of her brassieres, the lighter, unlined and unwired ones still fit, and she could wear them comfortably again. In her bedroom, she thought about putting on leggings and following along with a yoga DVD, spreading her mat out in the living room, but she hesitated as she looked up toward the top of her closet, saw the shoeboxes and thick scrapbook on the shelf. If she stood on tiptoe, then she could reach them; she took the boxes and scrapbook down, then rested them on her bed, sat alongside them, ghosted her fingers over their edges. 

Because she’d been a volunteer counselor for new mothers back when she herself was barely beyond being a new mother, she’d cleared out most of the baby things in the house, the spare blankets and outgrown clothes donated to those who needed them more than she did, but she kept a few things, just a few, whatever could fit in these boxes and be out of reach of her husband. Taking the lid off of the first shoebox, she looked down and smiled, the blanket she used for modesty while holding him skin-to-skin, the cotton soft and pilling, green and patchy in areas, she’d asked her mother to teach her how to sew because she knew that if the smallest of holes in a baby blanket could bring her to tears then she needed to know how to mend in order to survive. Though she gave birth to Otis in a birthing center rather than in a hospital, they were both given hospital-style bracelets nonetheless, and she’d kept both, his so much smaller than hers, she could remember so clearly his tiny fingers splayed as one of the nurses brought the band around his wrist, her baby warm on her chest, his breaths synchronizing with her own. She kept one pacifier though now she couldn’t understand why, a dopey little thing, probably still caked with drool and still frowned upon by the higher-ups for whom she volunteered, but her nipples had been cracking, and she could only tolerate so much screaming. She kept the sling she carried him in until he outgrew it at a year old, if only because it had been expensive hand-woven organic cotton and had made her husband angry when he saw the charge on her credit card statement. She kept the clothes her son came home in, tiny baby socks a friend she can’t remember anymore knit for Otis, a fleece hooded onesie that made her baby look like a little bear. She kept the things that she could run her fingers over and feel the same love she felt before, the passing time not tarnishing these precious things. She kept what she loved most.

She opened the scrapbook to the first page, pictures from her baby shower, her friend Anne-Marie who had since moved to the Australian outback and started doing too many recreational drugs in order to _find her passion_ dangling a crystal pendulum over her belly and proclaiming that it would be a boy, Jean and her mother in an awkward and clearly forced picture together. Back then, Jean’s hair was her natural dark blonde and so, _so_ long, always put up in clips or braids, and though she and her mother resembled each other so strongly, her mother had straight-across fringe and hair that stopped at her shoulders, the same haircut as always. Someone must’ve told them to pose, then clicked the button of their disposable camera and left the camera behind. Of course her mother put that picture in the very front, of course she did. On the following pages were the earliest photos of Otis, ones taken a few hours after he was born; Jean covered his body on her chest with that now-torn green blanket, looked down at him with that oxytocin-dosed love that she remembered so fondly. And there was Remi holding Otis, all of his clothes _and_ a scarf still on, and there was Jean’s mother with the baby, holding him in a practiced way. And then, Otis growing up, Otis holding a stuffed dinosaur toy, Otis sitting up for the first time, Otis taking his first steps while Jean held his little hands and grinned from ear to ear, all of the pictures exposed in that saturated nineties way, analog dates printed at their corners. 

As she came to one photograph, Jean paused, looked down at her younger self, her hair cut chest-length and her son standing on her lap, his booties resting against the silk of her skirt as she sat, her lips on his cheek as he smiled. She looked so young, and so happy, an effortless kind of happy, happiness that came from having everything feel _right_ at the moment. They’d just moved into the big red house by the river, and her mother kept marveling at how beautiful this spot was, how wonderful it would be for Otis to grow up here. The river, the woods, the place felt like magic from the moment Jean and Remi toured it until well after they put in their offer, and back then, Jean’s mother had been thinking about what kind of fabric to use while sewing curtains for this new home, about what housewarming gifts would be appropriate. Though Jean wanted one of the spare rooms to be for her mother, another for the second child she planned on having, Remi was adamantly against, saying that he couldn’t possibly deal with having his business as well as her mother in the same home, and he sure as hell wasn't going to rent an office space instead. Jean acquiesced, and a month later, she found her mother dead in her childhood home when she visited on a Saturday, an aneurysm having taken her mother the day beforehand. Jean had had Otis clutched to her chest as she used the landline to call for an ambulance. 

The album was empty after the picture of Otis standing on her lap, for her mother hadn’t been around to put more pictures in. She slipped the photograph of Otis on her lap out of the album, held the picture gently, tried to remember that day, tried to remember her mother behind the camera, tried to go back.

“Hey?”

She startled, looked up at the doorway to her bedroom to find her son, his backpack and coat still on, just having returned from school. 

“Otis?” she asked, bringing the photograph to her lap, wanting to hide it. “You’re back late.”

“I was hanging out with some friends.” 

He leaned against the jamb of the door, kept his hands in his pockets.

“Which friends?” Jean asked. “Eric?”

“Not today,” Otis said, shaking his head. “But we’re playing Smash over the weekend, I think.”

“Okay,” Jean gave, nodding. “Good. It's always nice when he comes over.”

“I was wondering what you wanted for your birthday.”

Jean furrowed her brow, gave, “It’s not for another week.”

She hadn’t looked at a calendar recently, not unless she was scheduling appointments. All she knew was that her birthday was on a Friday, and that she had two morning clients one afternoon that day. Last year, she hadn't had plans, and the year beforehand, she hadn’t had plans, so she hadn’t thought much about her birthday this year either.

“Still,” Otis said in his half-smug way, “the post can be very slow sometimes.”

“I don’t want anything,” she said, for she didn’t.

“Of course you want _something,_ ” Otis gave, “but I refuse to guess. And I can’t just buy you another scarf.”

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, he bought her a scarf each year. The first was cotton and good for holding her hair back in the summer, the second made from recycled plastic bottles and perfect for when she did face masks, and the third silk and work-appropriate and what she was wearing when she first met Jakob.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind another scarf,” she said, if only to end the conversation.

“Fine,” he conceded, “I’m getting you socks.”

He went to head to his room, but she called him back, asked for him to sit down next to her, handed the picture over to him. When he took the photograph so gently, only touching the edges, she softened. Her sweet son, always so sweet.

“Is this from back when we first moved in?” he asked, looking to her.

“Yes, maybe when we first brought the furniture in,” she said, for in the picture she was sitting on one of their old kitchen chairs, one Remi broke in a rage she and Otis weren’t home for. “I think this was a month before Grandma died.”

“You still dress the same.”

“I think I actually do still have that dress somewhere.”

They both laughed, and he looked back down at the picture, smiling softly at it, her sweet boy. 

“You should frame this,” he said, handing the photograph back to her, standing up. “Put it downstairs. Somewhere we can see.”

“Okay,” she said as he headed out, “I can do that, if you'd like.”

She looked back down at the picture, his little booties, her natural hair, and he called out before closing his bedroom door behind him, _I wasn’t kidding about the socks._


	6. Chapter 6

“I just think it’s obvious that Jo’s a lesbian!”

Jean leaned back in her chair in the library’s conference room, the book club vivaciously discussing a book she’d forgotten to read. Though she’d had _read Little Women_ penned in her planner for weeks, she’d never picked up a copy of the book, and this week, the morning sickness had decided to change from a clear, concise, reliable morning puke to nausea that permeated throughout her day. Of course this baby wouldn’t give her a comfortable reprise of the first trimester discomfort she'd had with Otis and instead would throw curveballs her way. On any other day, she would’ve gone out to the local bookstore as soon as they opened and speed-read the whole book, finishing the last few pages in her car and then walking into the book club’s meeting three minutes late, but today, she wasn’t going to do such things. Today, she wasn’t even wearing a bra to the meeting, for her sweater was big, so soft and slouchy, and her trousers felt too much like pajamas for her to suffer through even a padded bra, no underwire. And though on any other day she would _love_ to argue about female sexuality, today she wanted to go home and drink as much ginger tea as she possibly could, then fall asleep at five in the afternoon and not wake up until noon tomorrow.

Jean’s little friend in the fringe jacket sat across from Jean and watched two of the other women spar - the girl kept still, but her eyes darted back and forth as if she were intently watching a tennis match - while she clutched her copy of the book on her lap, a tattered little thing, a childhood edition, a gift. Jean liked worn corners. She liked that this girl looked personally offended by some of the conversations going on, as if she were hearing untrue gossip about her closest friends. 

“Why don’t we talk about _Amy_ instead?” Meredith chimed in when the Jo fans grew restless, and Jean wondered if she would have to run to the bathroom before the end of this meeting or if her stomach would hold out. 

This week, the snacks were only tortilla chips and store-bought salsa, and as things wound down, Jean made a beeline for the door, not stopping to chat, not looking to take some chips, wanting to get home as quickly as possible. Back home, she had plenty of things to help with the nausea, lots of tea, even some candied ginger because she’d grown desperate, and if she could get home soon, maybe she could make this nausea go away. Still, the walk to her car proved treacherous, and how was it that simply _walking_ could jostle her stomach? This wasn’t a roller coaster. No, this was _walking,_ from the library to the parking lot, so that she could get into her car. Would driving be even worse? When she reached the parking lot, she slowed her pace, feeling that she was about to be sick.

“Doctor Milburn?”

She turned around to see the girl scurrying out to meet her, half-sour face, furrowed brows, discomfort. Uncomfortable with asking for a ride, maybe? No, this was something else; though the girl felt she could ask for a ride, she felt she couldn’t ask for something more, something Jean couldn’t determine.

“Would you mind driving me home?” the girl asked. “It’s a bit cold out.”

And it was a bit cold out, in the most literal sense; Jean wore a sweater but no coat, but anyone who chose to go on a run that day would wear shorts. Today hadn’t called for rain or a chill, and the girl merely sought out an excuse, and Jean’s stomach turned, so she faced away from the girl, held out one finger as a way to ask for a moment, then vomited into the shrubbery outside of the library while the girl looked on in horror.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked, voice growing louder, a little distraught. 

“Fine!” Jean managed before retching again. She wondered if baby temperaments carried over from their gestational period and if she should be expecting an inconsistent hothead, then wondered if she’d truly thought of the pregnancy as _a baby_ before that day.

“Okay!” the girl said back, fists clenched, looking around awkwardly, nodding at passersby to say that no, they didn’t need help, this was fine, everything was fine. 

By the time Jean managed to pull herself together, the girl had softened a little, the shock turning to care, not wanting to be a bother. Jean wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then looked down at her knuckles and grimaced, wondering why she’d done that. 

“Actually,” the girl said, “I can walk home. It’s not that cold.”

“No, no,” Jean managed, “I’m fine. Really. I can drive you home.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t spread the flu around?” the girl gave, seeking a way out.

“Not contagious, I swear,” Jean said, shaking her head. Bad idea, she shouldn’t shake her head, shaking her head made her dizzy, she closed her eyes and tried to balance again. “Please don’t make me elaborate as to why not.”

“Bad sushi?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jean gave, then started walking toward her car, reaching into her handbag for her keys. She imagined that written atop an ultrasound printout, black-and-white imagery of something called _BAD SUSHI_ in her uterus.

Reluctantly, the girl followed, then climbed into the passenger’s seat after Jean opened the door for her. The girl left her bag at her feet, then crossed her arms while she waited for Jean to start the car. No seatbelt, of course. A teenage punk was different from an adult punk in that the teenage punk didn’t care about consequences while the adult punk focused primarily on how poor the consequences would be if action wasn’t taken in advance.

“I won’t move until you buckle your seatbelt,” Jean gave, the engine running but the car still in park.

The girl huffed, gave, “You’re not my mum.”

“No, but I’m a dreadful driver, and almost none of these roads are paved,” Jean said, unrelenting. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

Conceding, the girl did just that, so Jean exhaled and shifted gears, started driving toward the caravan park. She hoped the girl didn’t know where Otis Milburn lived and thus believed that Jean was simply dropping her off on a drive home rather than going out of the way.

After a long silence, the girl said, “I was wondering if I could ask for your help with something.”

Jean furrowed her brow, asked, “What kind of help?”

With clouds heavy overhead, the day turned dim in the early afternoon, and at least being sick had quelled Jean’s stomach for the moment. Though she would feel the weight of the day when she finally arrived home, took off her shoes, and climbed into bed, for now the drive home no longer felt like an impossible trek. 

“Just...advice, I guess,” the girl said. “Nothing major.”

“Okay,” Jean gave, nodding. “What kind of advice?”

“I think one of my friends betrayed me.”

“How so?”

“I think he deleted an...important message on my phone. Like, a really important one.”

“What was the message about?”

“I don’t know exactly. I never listened to it. Obviously.”

“How do you know it was important, then?”

“Because someone told me they left it, and...and on the message, they told me that they had feelings for me.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And I think my friend deleted it,” the girl said, “but I don’t want to believe it.”

“Is there enough evidence for you to think he deleted it?”

“Plenty.”

“But you don’t want to believe that your friend would do something like that.”

“Yes.”

The girl huffed, uncomfortable with rehashing the details.

“I don’t know what to do,” the girl gave, looking down at her lap. “I wish I could go back to the way things used to be. I think I fucked everything up.”

 _Language,_ Jean thought but didn’t say.

“How could you have messed things up,” Jean asked, “if all you’re referring to are the actions of others?”

“There’s...more than that,” the girl said, embarrassed, “but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Jean gave, nodding once, not asking. 

“I feel as if I attract bad people,” the girl said, “and then, I think that I’ve found some good people, but one of them goes and does something shit behind my back, and suddenly, I don’t know who I can trust anymore. And things were looking up, if only just a little. I wish I could rely on somebody.”

“It’s okay to only rely on yourself,” Jean said. “When you know you can rely on yourself, it’s much easier to be vulnerable with others.”

“But I _can’t_ rely on myself,” the girl gave, and her voice cracked, another betrayal. “I’m seventeen.”

And of course Jean couldn’t counter that, for when she was seventeen, she still had a mother, and her mother was pushy, a teacher who insisted that high grades were next to godliness, someone who planned all of Jean’s university interviews months upon months in advance. At the time, Jean had found it all overwhelming, but at least she’d had _something._

“I’m sorry,” Jean said, for lack of a better thing to say. “I’m sorry that things are so hard.”

The girl furrowed her brow as she looked over at Jean, then quickly looked back down at her lap.

“Thanks,” the girl said, a little surprised. “That’s...actually nice to hear.”

“And if your friend did something to hurt you, then they should apologize,” Jean said, “but they can’t until you express why you’re upset with them. And there will be good people out there, so long as you seek in them the right things.”

“Okay,” the girl gave, trying to end the conversation, “yeah. Okay.”

When they pulled up to the caravan park, Jean parked the car and let the girl climb out, but before the girl could close the door behind her, Jean called out, “Wait!”

Ducking down into the doorway, the girl asked, “What?”

“I never caught your name.”

Smiling tightly, the girl said, “Maeve.”

“Nice to meet you, Maeve,” Jean said. “Call me Jean.”

“No, thanks,” Maeve said, then shut the car door.

* * *

By Wednesday, Jean started concluding her sessions with clients early so that she could take a fifteen minute break to drink some tea and see if she could make herself sick, the nausea endless and unrelenting, none of her home remedies quelling it. Though she hadn’t experienced such horrible morning sickness with Otis, she knew better than to let this go on for too long, so she promised herself that she would call her doctor on Thursday if things didn’t improve. Then, at least, she could have medication prescribed to lessen the nausea, or so she hoped. She didn’t want to think about what she would do if her doctor told her simply to wait it out.

“And you’re sure you’re alright?” Jakob asked her on the phone on Wednesday evening, Otis and Jean both heading to bed early, Otis because he had a big test in the morning and Jean because she couldn’t stand up any longer. “I can come over.”

“No, no,” Jean said even though she wanted him to come over, “really, I’m okay.”

“Did you have dinner?”

“A little.” By definition, four crackers was _a little._ She wasn’t technically lying.

“The girls and I picked apples over the weekend,” he said, and she nestled deeper beneath the blankets, October growing colder by the day, she would need to opt for warmer pajamas soon. “Applesauce, easy to eat when you’re sick. I can bring you some.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Jean gave.

And she thought about the girls at an apple orchard over the weekend, how Alma, with her freshly minted Instagram account, would ask Jakob to take a picture while she and Ola posed, and then would make her father retake the picture because he didn’t understand angles, whatever that meant. She thought of Ola in sweaters and dungarees and high tops, and Alma’s pearl barrettes, and how they both rolled their eyes when their father yelled to them in Swedish about hurrying up or not talking to boys. She thought of hot cider on a cold day and the crisp taste of an apple ripe off of the tree. 

“How are your daughters doing?” Jean asked, wanting to change the subject.

“Fine,” he gave and didn’t elaborate.

“Is Alma alright?”

 _Alright_ would be the word of the conversation; she didn’t know if either of them would believe the other’s answer in response.

“She’s fine,” Jakob said. “At first, she was angry, but now, she is fine.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Jean asked. “I could take her out for a cup of coffee. I could...we could do something together, maybe. So she could get to know me better.”

“No coffee,” Jakob said, his fatherly strictness coming out. “She is fourteen. No coffee.”

Suppressing a laugh at the sudden _Dad Voice,_ Jean said, “A pastry, then? I know she likes those novelty bakeries.”

“She will come around in time,” Jakob said. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come over?”

“It’s okay,” Jean said, then promised herself that she would say yes if he asked one more time. “I’m fine, really. I’ve just been under the weather.”

“I should be taking care of you.”

Jean furrowed her brow, asked incredulously, “Why?”

And the silence between them hurt, for she knew what he wanted to say, but there was such weight to such words. _Because I did this to you. Because we both chose this, in a way. Because if things were conventional, then I would be your husband, and you would be my wife, and I would come home from work and make you tea and toast and rub your back when you felt sick. But you aren’t my wife, and the family we’ll create, should we ever truly create it, will be anything but conventional, and I am more than willing to love those so-called imperfections. I am ready to love those idiosyncrasies. But I still need to ask to enter your home, and then, I need to tell my daughters where I’m going, and I need to let one of them know that I still love her because I’m not sure she understands that yet. But despite all of that, despite everything that should push us apart, I want nothing more than to knock on your door and have you let me in._

“You already have enough to care for,” Jean said uncomfortably, the silence between them too heavy. “And I’m fine, really. I swear that I’m fine.”

“I am free in the morning tomorrow,” Jakob said. “I can take you to a doctor.”

“Not necessary,” Jean gave, “but thank you.”

And she couldn’t sleep because of the nausea, and she stared out through the sliver of window between her curtains and her walls, and she wondered how big the moon was tonight. She wondered if she was starting to hate sleeping alone. She wondered when she decided that other people were good at heart, then wondered if that correlated to when she finally started letting Jakob in. But was she letting him in? Tonight, they slept apart even though he offered to come over, but she didn’t want to disrupt his family, not now, not after how poorly Alma had taken the announcement of their relationship. She didn’t think it was maladaptive to put Alma’s needs before her own, so she sought in her training the proper boundaries, a combination of respect for others and respect for herself, but she came up with little that made sense. Though she was perfectly capable of asking Jakob to come over, she had greater concerns than those stemming from her fear of vulnerability. Was it wrong to hope that being self-sacrificial would keep Alma from hating her?

When her alarm went off, she forced herself out of bed, limbs staggering as she headed to the bathroom, the reliable morning puke that would turn into a full day of nausea, the exhaustion that made her question why anyone bothered trying to conceive. And she had four patients, and her birthday was tomorrow, and Jakob didn’t know her birthday because she’d never told him before and hadn’t even managed the confidence to tell him last night. 

At the breakfast table, Otis was having beans on toast, the smell making Jean’s stomach uneasy as she sipped her first of many cups of ginger tea. 

“So,” Otis said, acting a little smug, “what kind of cake do you want?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jean gave, feeling uncomfortably hungry and nauseous simultaneously. 

“For your birthday,” Otis said. “I’m getting you a cake.”

“You don’t need to do that,” she brushed off. 

“But I’m going to do it,” Otis said, all too chipper for seven in the morning, “and if you don’t tell me which kind, then I’ll pick up red velvet, which I know you hate, just to spite you.”

On any other day, she would’ve laughed, but she was too tired for such antics, and she really didn’t want a cake, at least not some store-bought pre-made cake that ticked off certain boxes on a to-do list, not a sad cake shared by mother and son on a birthday for which he bought her socks. She wanted the thick chocolate buttercream that Jakob made in her kitchen for a bake sale at Alma’s school; she wanted to watch as he put a crumb coat on two layers of cake, wanted to find the bowl filled with icing and stick her finger in so that she could eat the little bits left behind.

“Chocolate,” Jean gave, and her first client of the day would be there in a few minutes, and she already felt sick again.

“Frosting or cake?” Otis asked, bringing his own dish to the sink.

“Both,” she said even though she didn’t feel like having a birthday at all.

* * *

The day before her birthday, she managed to finish her last appointment before she was sick again, and though she’d been good all week, had made whatever meals she could manage and forced herself to eat and promised that she would call her doctor if things escalated, she sat on the bathroom floor and held her head in her hands and thought, _I can’t do this anymore._ So she put on cashmere sweats and went into her drawers to find the biggest, softest shirt she owned, but when all she managed was an old tee one size larger than her own, she looked down at Jakob’s drawer and thought of his sweatshirts, worn-in and comfortable, or his button-downs that were patched at the elbows, skillful stitches, or even his aran sweaters, too warm for this time of year but so comfortable in winter. He left behind a half-zip sweatshirt, a pale green fabric covering the shoulders and grey used for the rest of the body, and she picked the sweatshirt up, held it to her face, closed her eyes. Though she hand-washed all of her sweaters and dry-cleaned most of her trousers, there was something about lovingly washed cotton that made her melt. She liked that this form-fitted him when he wore it, liked that he kept some of his favorite shirts in her home. Was he missing this one right now? Was he missing her? She pulled on the sweatshirt and climbed into bed for the evening, texting Otis that she had food poisoning and wouldn’t be leaving her bedroom but that he could take money out of her wallet for takeaway if he so desired. Taking a deep breath, she decided to be as comfortable as she could be for the rest of the day, aching breasts and nausea be damned.

Checking her messages, she found a few from Jakob, a generic _good morning_ followed by a _what are you doing this weekend,_ and she stilled as she fully realized how easy it would be to tell him. _It’s my birthday tomorrow,_ she could say, _and I think it would be nice if we had dinner together._ And then, she would apologize, say she didn’t know how to bring up the subject without seeming narcissistic, and he would wear a tie and take her to the nice restaurant a twenty-minute drive away, and they would be lit by candles, and he would buy her chocolate lava cake for dessert. Flowers? Of course he would bring flowers. Maybe he would even bring her a jar of honey from his friend’s beehives, fresh and seasonal, perfect in her tea. 

And she could write these fantasies for hours if she so desired. She could think through every romantic movie she’d ever seen - and she’d seen so many - and she could imagine herself as the main character and Jakob as the sweet, charming, beautiful man who decided to sweep her off her feet in so many different scenarios, and she could see the things that in stories she loved but in real life she detested: weddings, baby showers, commitment. She could pull the covers up over her head and imagine Jakob down on one knee in the most romantic restaurant in New York City, not that she’d ever googled such a place, and she could imagine Jakob owning the competing chain bookstore to her own little family-run shop even though she knew that it would be more likely for him to run the comfy, cozy little store, and she could think of herself as a hooker with a heart of gold, and then, that was too much, that was ridiculous. _You can’t live in a fantasy,_ she told herself as she pulled the covers back down, but she wished that things could be easier. Though she knew that vulnerability took practice and effort, she wished that she could tell him when her birthday was without feeling as if she were climbing to the top of a high peak. How could she build a life with this man if she found the _little things_ exhausting? 

_Just text him,_ she told herself, but it was no use, for no matter how many times she tried to type out the message, _my birthday is tomorrow_ changing to _it’s my birthday this weekend_ to _I don’t have any plans but might spend time with my son on Friday_ to _I want to make plans with you for tomorrow night and you need to promise that if you ever learn when my birthday is you won’t look back on this day and think that I’m a terrible person_ , she couldn’t bring herself to press send. This year, he wouldn’t spend her birthday with her, and he wouldn’t give her some achingly perfect gift that she would cherish for as long as she lived, and he wouldn’t get down on one knee in the most romantic restaurant in New York City, and she would be sad that he wouldn’t even though she thought public proposals were manipulative. Instead, she texted him _I’ve been really sick so I don’t have plans,_ and within seconds, he responded with _I’m sorry,_ followed by _would you like me to come over?_

 _No, it’s fine,_ she sent back, then set her phone on her bedside table and decided not to look at it for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Otis wished her a happy birthday in the morning and kissed her cheek before heading off to school. There was no cake on a stand on the counter like her mother used to have, no tiny wrapped present like when her son was still little, no excitedly waking up Mama by bouncing on her in bed and offering her a card scribbled with children’s handwriting. She hated holidays. She hated that there were calendar days that were supposed to feel special but never really felt special at all. She hated that expectation, and how she always fell short of expectations, and how she should’ve been thankful for a cheek kiss and a birthday wish, and how she wasn’t even thankful that the nausea had quelled because she was too busy thinking about cakes and sons and how being vulnerable sometimes only hurt and didn’t help at all.

Three clients. She could get through three clients. And all things considered, these clients weren’t challenging, the scrotal anxiety case that Jean had mistaken for Jakob and two couples hoping not to divorce; these clients needed her and were willing to listen, so she could coast through the day, then spend her evening trying to relax and not thinking about what it meant to be a year older. And as the scrotal anxiety case talked about looking at his testicles using a handmirror, Jean sipped ginger tea and thought about chocolate cake, two layers because three would be excessive, thick buttercream, pink icing on the edges. She thought of candles lit and blown out. And presents, she wanted presents, was it wrong to want presents? She should’ve told Otis to buy her another scarf, she really did love those scarves, and he was practical when he purchased them, opting for nice cottons or sleek silks, the kinds of materials that were staples in her wardrobe. And now, he would give her socks, if he gave her anything at all, and it was her fault in the end, for she told him to give her socks. And she didn’t tell Jakob that it was her birthday, and had she told him, he would’ve baked her that very cake, then looped little ribbons of icing around the sides, making the cake look like the ones in the window displays of the cake shop in town. He would’ve brought her flowers. He would’ve called her in the morning to say happy birthday, then come by in the evening for a nice little homemade dinner. Had she told him, today would have been so much better.

But it wasn’t a bad birthday, was it? For lunch, she managed four whole slices of buttered toast, and though she vomited first thing in the morning, she’d been okay ever since, maybe feeling a little seasick but nothing more, and finally, the ginger tea was starting to help. Jakob texted her sometime in the morning asking if she was alright, and she texted back that she was alright, for her nausea had waned, and her birthday wasn’t as bad as it could be. She had a little extra time to balance her books for September, then one last client, then nothing, pure, beautiful nothing, the rest of the day - and week - at her disposal. She could get into bed and not get out again, or she could eat more toast. Was that really such a horrible birthday?

As she finished up with her final client, she heard consecutive thuds outside of her office, strange sounds. Was Otis home? Was he baking her a cake? Maybe it would be too warm to frost, but her heart leaped at the thought of a birthday cake, any birthday cake, one made with store-bought frosting that dripped off the sides and pooled on the plate below, one undercooked in the center. So he hadn’t forgotten. No, he hadn’t forgotten, and he’d had a test this week, and she’d been _horrible_ to assume that he’d forgotten. Her client headed out for the day, and as she listened to boards creaking outside her office, sneaky steps, her son was too sweet, she finished up her notes from the session. While she checked her datebook for the next week, she heard Otis in the kitchen ram his toe into the cabinet and bounce around saying _ouch,_ and his voice sounded higher, so he must’ve hit it hard. A whole birthday cake, just for her! When had she last had a birthday cake made for her? The past few years, she treated herself to a cupcake from the cake shop downtown - the triple chocolate one with sour cream in the frosting and a chocolate filling, she could remember it and the sugar buzz it gave her afterward all too clearly - but she hadn’t had a cake baked specifically for her, nor had that baking been done by someone who loved her. When she closed her datebook, finished work for the day, she found that she was smiling.

“Otis, darling,” she called out as she left her office and looked for him in the kitchen, but the kitchen was empty, two pots bubbling on the stove, the stove still hot.

Furrowing her brow, she called out for him, looked around, but he wasn’t in the living room. Maybe upstairs? And what part of a cake needed to be cooked on the stove? The oven hadn’t even been turned on. Maybe he was cooking her dinner, not baking her a cake, and though her smile faded away at the thought, she forced herself to be happy with a birthday dinner instead. Could Otis cook well? Could he cook at all? _It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself as she went upstairs in search of him, but he wasn’t in his room, and the bathroom was empty. The porch, then. She went back downstairs and headed out to the porch, sliding open the door and calling out for her son.

“Otis, darling, you really shouldn’t leave the stove on when you’re not in the kitchen,” she scolded, then looked to her right and found the table on the porch set with plates and utensils for a dinner for five, a chocolate-frosted cake on a stand acting as a centerpiece. Around the table, her son and the Nyman family stood, all of them taken off-guard, clearly not expecting her at that moment.

“Surprise!” they all managed in an awkward succession, not having rehearsed the greeting. 

Ola whispered to Otis _I thought you said she had clients until five,_ and Otis whispered back _I told you, her datebook cannot be trusted,_ and Alma added, _we should’ve had a cue for when we said_ surprise _because that sounded super bad_ , and Jakob whispered _stop that,_ and Otis spoke for everyone by forcing out, “Jakob made ravioli!” 

And Otis smiled too widely, and Ola gave a thumbs-up, and Alma looked as if she would rather be anywhere else, and Jakob hurried back inside, claiming that he didn’t want to leave dinner on too long, and he was wearing one of his nice shirts, crisp and white with a thin sweater over top. Though the kids were in their school clothes, Jakob had dressed up for her, and was making her ravioli, and she knew based on the smooth way that _Happy Birthday, Jean!_ was written atop the cake in white and pink frosting that he’d baked this cake for her, then decorated it with purple and yellow edible flowers and bright frosting ribbons around the edges. He baked her a cake. He actually baked her a cake, and then frosted it so neatly, and then decorated it with flowers, real flowers. Was that why Otis had asked about what kind of cake she wanted? Jakob couldn’t have known it was her birthday unless Otis had told him, so Otis must’ve been asking on Jakob’s behalf in order not to spoil the surprise. 

And if she thought about it more, she would start crying, so she went over to her son and hugged him in thanks, asked, “Did you plan this?”

“Ola and I were talking at school, and I mentioned your birthday, and she said Jakob had no idea, so we kind of devised a scheme,” Otis gave as he hugged her back. “For a second there, though, we thought we’d been had. Jakob was hiding out here, and the whole time, he kept lamenting about the mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms?” 

She let go of Otis and looked up at him, her sweet son, sweet enough to help coordinate a little surprise birthday party for her. After all that had been happening recently, she wondered if maybe she was wrong, and that the worst of him that she saw was not what the rest of the world saw. 

“It’s spinach and goat cheese ravioli,” Ola added from across the table, “in a mushroom sauce.”

And of course Jean needed to hug Ola too, so she walked past Otis and brought the girl into a big hug, squeezed back when Ola squeezed her. 

“Sorry that Dad’s wearing so much cologne,” Ola said as she and Jean let go of each other. “I swear I tried to talk him out of it, but it’s hard to raise parents.”

With Alma, Jean wasn’t sure what to do, but thankfully, the girl hugged her and wished her a quiet, discontented _happy birthday_ , wishing she were elsewhere but accepting her fate. Though Jean tried to tell herself that the girl would come around, it was hard to believe such a thing as Alma let go of her. 

“Thanks for the ice cream, by the way,” Alma said, not meeting Jean’s eyes as she spoke. “It was really good.”

“You’re welcome,” Jean said, content with any acknowledgement at all.

Because she wanted to make sure everything was okay in the kitchen, she dismissed herself and went to check on Jakob, who stood over the pots on the stove and stirred, then smiled when he looked up and saw her coming into the kitchen. 

“Happy birthday,” he said with a little smile, and she thought she might die, that teenage-girl-at-a-party, kissing-the-boy-she-has-a-crush-on, ending-of-a-romantic-comedy kind of _might die_. “I hope you like mushrooms.”

“I do,” she said as she sidled up alongside him, leaned against the kitchen counter. 

“Otis is giving you socks,” Jakob said as he tilted his head toward the window seat, where a little pile of wrapped presents sat. “I told him this was a bad idea, but he is a bad listener.”

“That’s okay,” Jean gave. “I told him he could.”

And Jakob was, in fact, wearing too much cologne, but that meant that if she hugged him right now, which she did, then her clothes would smell like him later. Leaving behind his stirring, he wrapped his arms around her and let her lean her cheek against his chest. 

Rubbing her back gently, he asked, “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I made you a tonic for the morning sickness,” he said, kissing the top of her head before he let go of her, reaching out for a little glass bottle on the counter. “Honey and ginger, boiled down. Very strong.”

He handed her the bottle, and she turned it back and forth in the palm of her hand, watching the thick liquid move each way.

“Should I mix it with hot water?” she asked.

“No, take a spoonful in the morning,” he said, “or whenever you feel sick.”

Thick syrup, strings of ginger, old wives’ tales and magic elixirs and the uncomfortably human wish for those you love to feel well. He baked her a cake, likely took hours to decorate it and carefully add edible flowers on top. In his spare time, a rare and limited resource, he chopped up ginger roots and steeped them in honey on the stove, maybe one of his big dutch ovens. For practicality, he reused an old juice bottle to hold the tonic, the brand’s name written on top of the metal cap, some kind of strawberry lemonade. The most precious form of love, she realized, is time.

“Thank you,” she said, tapping her nails on the glass. “That’s really sweet of you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he gave, but she knew it was.

He stirred and checked his kitchen timer, one he brought from his home to hers because he knew better than to expect her kitchen to be fully-stocked, and she stood alongside him quietly, wondering if he would ask. _Why didn’t you tell me about your birthday? Why did I learn about your birthday secondhand? Why won’t you let me in even after I told Alma about us? Can’t you see how that has divided my family?_ But he didn’t ask, so she took a deep breath, tried to find the right words. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about my birthday,” Jean said, and her cheeks felt hot, why was she blushing? 

“It’s okay,” he said, starting to plate dinner. “It does not matter in the end.”

“I wanted to tell you,” she said, staring down at her shoes, “but I found it hard to do, and...I can’t defend it. I’m trying. I swear that I’m trying.”

“I know you are.” 

He ladled cream sauce over top of five bowls of ravioli. He'd brought the dinosaur ladle from home. 

“I wish it was all easier,” Jean said, shaking her head, “but it _is_ easy. It’s me that’s the problem.”

Taking out his wooden parmesan grinder, also brought from home, Jakob hovered the grinder over each bowl, looked to her, then started topping bowls of pasta. 

“Your son told my daughter, and my daughter told me,” Jakob gave, shrugging it all off. “When others care about you, they make the hard things easier.”

And she sighed and nodded in agreement, but it felt wrong to rely on happenstance for things like this, for homemade ravioli and a floral cake on her birthday. Had he scrambled to make a plan? The kids hadn’t even coordinated their _happy birthday_ chant. Was she a nuisance to them?

“Jean,” Jakob said, dinner plated and steaming, topped with melting cheese, it all smelled so good, and he was being serious, and she felt small, “I want to know these things about you. I do.”

When he spoke to her like that, she couldn’t look at him, but he reached for her hand anyway, trying to draw her in. 

“I know that something inside you tells you not to let me know,” he said, all too understanding, the kind of understanding that she knew she didn’t deserve, “but I want to know. I’ll always want to know.”

“Okay,” she gave, hoping that the conversation would end there.

“So next time,” he said, squeezing her hand before letting go, “you don’t need to listen to what tells you to hold back.”

And he brought all the bowls out to the porch in one inelegant and almost egotistical gesture - Jean could imagine him with grocery bags saying _just one trip_ \- and Ola brought a plastic rhinestone crown, the _birthday girl_ crown from the Nyman household, one even Jakob was forced to wear on his birthday every April, and the crown was too small, made for a child, and Jean kept pushing it back up onto her head as she cut pieces of ravioli in half. Someone had hung little twinkle lights around the porch, their brightness growing as the sun began to set, and at the middle of it all, the cake sat, covered in little flowers, made with love. Apparently, Ola did the buttercream, she’d worked in a bakery not this past summer but the one before that, had a signature recipe written down on a note on her cell phone. When Otis first told Ola that Jean’s birthday was coming up, he immediately thought of a little surprise party, peppering in questions for her about tastes and work hours, never intending to make a cake for her himself but not knowing exactly what kind of cake would be her favorite. And dinner, he couldn’t give Jakob any guidance on dinner, but Otis knew that they’d all enjoyed the homemade tortellini, and a friend of Jakob’s had brought over some fresh goat cheese from his farm that day, so they worked with what they had. 

They didn’t count the number of birthday candles, instead used all that came in one little packet from the grocery store, and everyone sang off-key, everyone except Alma at least, and Jean sat at the head of the table and looked down at what was written on top of the cake, the daylight fading along the horizon, little twinkle lights all around the porch, warmth radiating off of the cake, flowers bright and beautiful in front of her. Making a wish first, she blew out the candles, and she insisted on taking a picture of the cake before they started cutting, and because she couldn’t figure out how her phone’s camera worked, Ola politely took out her own phone, snapped a photo, and said she would text Jean the image. Three layers, chocolate cake and chocolate buttercream with a white chocolate ganache filling, Jakob cut the first slice for Jean because it was her birthday, but Jean waited until everyone else had a slice to take her first bite. 

Of course it was decadent. Of course he could bake. She tried to think of reasons why to keep all of the leftovers for herself, but Ola and Otis were laughing about something she hadn’t heard, and Alma had a little bit of chocolate left on her upper lip, and Jakob nudged Jean's wedged foot with his dress shoe, and no, she didn’t want to keep this all for herself. Instead, she wanted to go out with them all for breakfast tomorrow, and she wanted to order French toast, the really thick kind, Texas toast, four servings of bread per slice, and she wanted to ask for extra butter, extra whipped cream, extra powdered sugar. Ola was talking about her girlfriend, and apparently, this was the same girl who Otis tried to have sex with - small towns were too small - and Jean could remember remnants of the alien story, but it was much bigger than that, and this girl was a really talented artist; Ola handed her cell phone over to Jean in order to show a picture of a comic the girlfriend had drawn of Ola, making Ola into a superhero of some kind, and Jean understood. She understood that people are only people until we love them. Then, they’re something more, heroes in a comic, worthy of a surprise birthday party, gifts wrapped and piled on a window seat, soup in containers and Girl Explorers cookies and showing up late to a first doctor’s appointment and being there in the waiting room when her appointment was finished, looking nervous but in a good way, asking if they could go out for lunch.

She wanted to have an open heart. Though she didn’t know how she could do such a thing, she looked around at these people and understand with ease that they deserved presence, caring, involvement, and she wanted to do every right thing. And maybe they would make such things easier - her son certainly had, and she knew that his love for her had kept her sane throughout the divorce, and she remembered how he climbed up onto her lap during one of her bad days, how he proved to her that she didn’t need to be perfect in order to be loved - or maybe they would only make things harder, and she thought that maybe having things be hard would be worthwhile. For so long, she hid herself away for fear of pain brought on by others, but the hiding never insulated her from pain and instead only insulated her from joy. Of course, she never was heartbroken by someone else, and she never felt rejected, devastated, annihilated, but she never felt joyful either, always lonely or sad or anxious, looking for more but knowing that _more_ would hurt. _Let the pain come,_ she thought as everyone moved inside, the night growing dark, the party insisting that gifts be opened tonight. _Let it swallow me whole._

First up, there was a box from Alma, suspiciously cookie-shaped and obvious even without a shake test, but Jean furrowed her brow and slid her finger beneath the seam of the wrapping anyway, pretending to wonder what it was even though she knew it was a box of Girl Explorers mint and chocolate cookies. She held up the box - of course she’d guessed correctly - and looked to Alma, sharing an armchair with Ola while Otis sat on the floor and Jakob and Jean shared the couch, and thanked her generously while wondering if her father had forced her to give this little gift. Of course, Alma brushed off the thanks, but they were both trying their best, Jean was sure of it. When Jean opened Ola’s gift, she almost dropped the lovely ceramic mug, making the whole room wince, but luckily, nothing ended up chipped, and the paired box of tea - chamomile, one of Jean’s favorites - would surely become a household staple. 

“Don’t even open Otis’,” Ola said, shaking her head. “It’s not worth it.”

“I told him not to,” Jakob said, booming voice, resounding Viking warning, pure _Dad Voice_. “I said this is a bad idea.”

“Oh, stop,” Jean gave as Otis brought his present over and beamed the whole time.

“I think you’ll like it,” he gave smugly, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

And of course it was three pairs of socks, of course it was, but they were _nice_ socks, silk-merino trouser socks, something comfortable for when she - and she dreaded this day - had to give up her wedges for the rest of the year. She pouted her lip and held her hand over her heart in mock-thanks, but really, she did like these socks, and she thought she should wear them tomorrow, bring out her ankle boots early this year, especially with how cold the weather was growing. Maybe she should wear one of the scarves he gave her too, or maybe that was overkill. Did it matter? She loved her son, and once everyone else left, she would hug him and tell him so.

Jakob’s gift was last, a little soft package wrapped up in sparkly paper, something probably leftover from the girls’ birthdays, and he was close enough to her on the couch for her to grow nervous as she peeled back the tape at the seams. For his birthday, she would have to outdo this, and his birthday, April, his birthday in April, he would have a birthday in April, and she was due in May, and she would be wearing his shoes because hers didn’t fit anymore, and he would be teaching her about traditional Swedish names, and nothing would be secret anymore. Would the children be comfortable with this strange hodgepodge family, surprise birthday parties and white chocolate ganache, sitting on the porch and feeling distant but connected simultaneously? Would Alma like her by then? But it was fruitless to wonder, and she wasn’t out of the first trimester yet, and she wanted something to hold on to, something obvious, something concrete. When she was pregnant with Otis, she'd had a remarkably unpresent husband but a husband nonetheless, and that ticked off certain boxes, gave her a certain reassurance even if that reassurance was purely theoretical and rarely actualized. At least she’d known what her family would look like once her child was born, and at least she could direct her life toward anything and everything that prioritized her child’s wellbeing. This time, however, she floundered, and though there was space in her life for this new kind of family, fitting new love into the nooks and crannies of her world wouldn’t be easy, and she feared that that lack of ease would make everything fall apart. Though her home had two spare rooms upstairs and a livable attic, she still wondered, would the girls ever come here? Would there ever be a complete move? And in the end, did she even want a complete move? Next fall, Otis would start applying to universities, Ola too, and then, only Jean, Jakob, and Alma would be left, and a new baby who wouldn’t be so new anymore, and a red house that she feared would be full of crying and contempt. Was she making the right decision?

And she pulled from the paper a knit scarf of some kind, or not a scarf but a shawl, triangular, she held it up in front of her and found it wide and long enough to cover her whole torso and then some, and it was woolen, a light shade of blue, tree-like structures lining the body and eyelets left at the edge. Though it felt warm and rustic, the shawl was soft too, good for having close to the skin, and she thought of wrapping it around her neck, the point of the triangle facing down, and she thought of covering her shoulders with it now that the drafty-office season was beginning. And the _color_ , the color was timeless, she could see herself wearing this from fall to spring, lamenting when the weather grew warm enough for her to put it away for the season. It was all too easy to picture, this scarf nestled beneath her coat as she leaned her head against his shoulder while they took a train together, the kids sitting in a nearby section of seats, Ola reading while sitting with her knees bent in a way that made Jean’s body ache to think about, Alma wearing headphones and playing that cat game on her phone, Otis looking out at the passing countryside and listening to Joy Division. Snow outside, somewhere else, somewhere far off, and Jakob is warm next to her, he hoisted her too-heavy suitcase into the overhead compartment on her behalf, and he buys her a caramel-filled chocolate bar from the snack cart that goes by, and the sun starts to set, and she’s so sleepy and comfortable that she closes her eyes and dreams.

“The color of the yarn reminded me of your eyes,” he said softly, a secret for just the two of them, and it hit her hard, the dedication, the size of the shawl, the many little stitches.

“You made this?” she asked incredulously, looking to him and then back at the shawl, and yes, it did look hand-knit, but he could knit something like this? He could knit at all? And he saw a color, the most basic color, and in the most basic form too, a ball of yarn, and he thought, yes, this is the same color as Jean’s eyes, and I will take all of these and form them into something for Jean, then tell her why I wanted to do so.

“You should tell me your birthday earlier next time,” he said, as if there could be a _next time._ “My wrists, they are very sore.”

And she laughed incredulously because that was all she could do, for he’d knit her a hug, and she wanted to wear it already but didn’t want to look foolish, and she hugged him tightly, then wondered if that was appropriate in front of the kids, but Alma had her phone out, showing a picture to Otis and Ola, and maybe this was normal for the girls, things made with love. She wanted this to be normal. She would do anything to make this normal. If she needed to, she would go to the hardware store, buy every plank of wood they had, and build upon her house a whole new area, plenty of space for this family of hers, plenty more room. Remembering what Maureen had said after yoga, she cemented her intentions: love couldn’t bring her a beautiful life on its own, but love made building that beautiful life so much easier.

“Thank you,” she said as she let go of him. “I love it. I really do.”

And that evening, she planned the clothes she would wear the next day, hung the shawl over the top of a blue silk shirt, and felt more loved than she’d been in a long, long time.


	7. Chapter 7

On Tuesday, he asked if she could meet him at a coffee shop near where he was working, and she didn’t have a client at the time, so she drove over, managed to wedge herself into one of the parking spots on the street, and found him waiting inside for her, thick flannel shirt, jeans that had seen better days, a smile from ear to ear. A case of pastries, croissants ranging from savory to sweet, cookies as big as her face and paninis made to order, and he said, _have a pastry, I insist._ To pair with a chocolate croissant, she ordered iced herbal tea, something fruity, she still couldn’t determine whether or not she was allowed to have caffeine, and he wanted two shots of espresso, short and not at all sweet. He liked savory things, ham and garlic in a pastry, and he liked slow afternoons, and most of all, he liked sitting by the window, right where the sun hit them both without forcing them to face the solar glare, right where the seats were red-upholstered and overstuffed.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said, nodding down at the shawl he’d given her, the one she’d worn all weekend and then yesterday too, only taking it off when he came over for dinner because she felt pointlessly embarrassed. At first, she wore it as a scarf, and then she put it over her shoulders instead, keeping her warm when she wore lightweight shirts, but she liked it best as a scarf, so she wore it that way today, a long grey cardigan covering one of her flowy shirts and the shawl resting over top. “It suits you.”

Though her cheeks grew warm, she tried to act casual, gave, “It’s been cold. I’m trying to keep warm.”

And he smiled and shook his head at her as a barista brought over a tall glass for her and a little mug for Jakob, two pastries on floral plates. He knew her too well, and for once, she found that that made her feel warm rather than frightened, not truly warm but a little warmer. She could feel it though she couldn’t put the words together: _thank goodness he understands._

“In Sweden, we have a word for this,” he said, then took a sip of his coffee, so strong, just a little bubble of milk foam on top. 

“This?”

She couldn’t tell if he meant the espresso, the croissants, the cafe, or their afternoon together.

“ _Fika,_ ” he said, and she still didn’t understand. “Ola calls it _an afternoon pause,_ but I think that is boring.”

“An afternoon pause,” she said, nodding down, two drinks and two pastries, two people in one place. 

Had they been on a date since they’d split up? Yes, they’d had lunch together after her first appointment, but had that really counted? When he called to invite her for pastries and coffee today, she hadn’t even thought about saying no. What did that mean? She needed to write a book in which she charted the different levels of intimacy, putting scientific terms to the difference between _lunch out of obligation after an appointment, lunch in which we don’t talk about what’s on our minds and instead sit across from each other, brimming with unknown possibility, wondering if saying anything at all would be saying too much_ and _fika, whatever that means, and he’s across from me, and I’m glad that he is for absolutely no good reason, and I will pause and realize that I’ve been smiling and not be able to point to exactly what is making me smile._ She needed to put this into academic context so that she would stop sweating.

“We take a break for coffee and food at work and have chats,” he gave. “My employees, they don’t understand this at all.”

“Workplaces will do that?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding. “Many do in Sweden. Those places are more productive than ones that don’t.”

And it made psychological sense, she knew that people weren’t meant to work nine-to-five straight and needed breaks, and it was a most human need to speak with others about something other than the objective or the obvious, but she didn’t say that, instead took a sip of her tea, sweet but not too sweet, raspberry-flavored, and wondered what they should talk about during this instance of afternoon _fika,_ something he was introducing her to, something he was teaching her about. Love, she knew, was filled with teaching.

“You mentioned an appointment last night,” he said as she took to her chocolate croissant, the perfect sweet tooth food. This baby made her crave nothing but sugar. “I forgot to write it down in my datebook.”

Yes, a dating ultrasound, not even the interesting one, but of course he wanted to be there, and of course she wanted him to be there, and she was glad that he was over-the-top by default because then she rarely needed to ask him to come along and could assume he always wanted to join, making it easier for her to avoid the vulnerability of an invitation. 

“The twenty-ninth, at two,” she gave. “Same address. But again, it’s not important, and if you can’t take the time-”

“Twenty-ninth,” he repeated back to her, then took a pen from his chest-pocket, wrote down on the top of his hand the set of numbers, an infallible scheduling system. She wondered how he ever remembered any of his appointments. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

“We’ll still have to wait two weeks after that to tell the kids,” she said, confirming it but threatening him a little too. _You’re not allowed to go home looking all bubbly and happy afterward._

“I know, I know,” he gave, and though she went to repeat herself, he kept talking and said, “I was thinking. For after we tell them.”

“So, December.”

“Really? That far away?”

She didn’t want him to know that, much like an author trying to create a timeline for a story, she’d charted out every last bit of this pregnancy and the circumstances surrounding it on a series of calendar printouts, even the smallest of details, such as by which date she should ensure that Alma liked her, taken into account, so she simply said, “Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “this year, my family intended to travel home for Christmas.”

“To Sweden?”

“Rättvik,” he gave, nodding, and she couldn’t pronounce that word if she tried, nor could she write it down in order to google it later. “I’ve been watching the prices for flights.”

She went to speak but couldn’t find words, wondered why he was bringing this up, for she could miss him for a week during the holidays, it wouldn’t be a big deal to spend Christmas apart, but then, she realized what he meant and froze, her face going blank.

“You’d like me to join you,” she said without thinking, what an inelegant thing to say.

“You and your son, yes,” he said, “if you would like to come.”

Oh, so now this was _her_ decision. She was tired of having big decisions be hers to make. For once, she wished that this kind, honest, supportive man would say _no, you must come and see my family for the holidays, or else I will torch your house while you sleep._

“That’s a big step,” she said, the wrong thing to say yet again, what was she doing? Was it really a big step at all? Unfortunately, it fit so well into her wretched calendar: tell the children at the end of November, have the important ultrasound in December, then jet off to Sweden to spend time with...Jakob’s parents? Jakob’s siblings? Jakob’s siblings’ children? “How much family do you mean?”

“My...family,” he gave, as if the answer should be obvious.

“Your parents?”

“And my brothers and sister,” he said. “And their children.”

“How many children?”

And Jakob looked up at the ceiling as he tried to count them all, so she shook off that thought, asked instead, “How long would it be?”

“A week, I believe,” he gave. “Again, I have not bought tickets.”

Was _fika_ supposed to be relaxing? She didn’t feel relaxed at all.

“Something to think about,” he said, dropping the subject, acting as if she wouldn’t be thinking about that nonstop until some other monumental question was asked of her. “I thought I could take you to dinner on Friday.”

“Friday?” In her haze of thought, she’d forgotten that they lived in a world in which _Fridays_ existed.

“In the evening,” he said. “The French restaurant.”

Yes, the French restaurant, he kept telling her about it, a new place two towns over, great reviews. He talked about food a lot, and though she was bad at listening - she didn’t know what half the words meant - she still listened nonetheless. The highlight words she could remember: olive oil, baguette, garlic, romance.

“We can be fancy,” he said, little perk of a smile, and she could remember long ago, not actually _long ago_ but feeling so long ago now, before they split up, back when in the darkness in bed together she pillow-talked to him about how she dreams of times when she can wear her nicer dresses, she never has the opportunity to wear them anymore, she secretly wishes that people she knows will get remarried so she has an excuse to dress up. And he remembered, of course he remembered, of course he remembered. “I will wear a tie.”

“Okay,” she said, and the haze in her mind was clearing. She could think about Christmas and Sweden and children another day. She could already think of four dresses she could wear. “Yeah, okay.”

He smiled and finished off his croissant.

* * *

At the restaurant, he ordered four appetizers, and when she insisted on at least paying for half of the meal, at _least,_ he brushed her off, said he’d been meaning to have a nice meal here for a while now. And the ambience was right for herb-buttered escargot and artistic cheese plates, all candles and white tablecloths and exposed brick and gold mirrors on the walls, low lighting to the point that she needed to squint to read the menu. As promised, he wore a tie, a black one, and a pressed white dress shirt, and a sport coat that fit his shoulders all too well. Dressed like that, she almost couldn’t tell that he had tattoos, could only see the ones that spread out onto the backs of his hands. And it was overwhelming that she could now look at him and feel disconcertingly attracted to him but have the undercurrent of love she felt for him not make her want to flee.

After her last client of the day, she took out the four dresses she’d thought of wearing, and she rested each one on top of her bed, angling them, repositioning them, trying to see which one she was drawn to most, but she frowned as she found that each of them had some kind of irreversible flaw, something that made it good for other days but imperfect for this one. The lavender slip, for example, was too much of a spring color, and though she could wear a cashmere sweater over top, she feared she would look like a frumpy Easter egg when, in a different season, she would look poised and effortless. In contrast, the dark red tea-length long-sleeve seemed too sultry, the dip in front too deep for an easy, casual date rather than one meant to entice. _But would it be so wrong?_ she wondered as she ran her fingers over the soft fabric. She really did like this dress, and best of all, she looked _good_ in it, the fit tailored to perfection, the silhouette so flattering, but she wasn’t sure if she should, in few words, _dress sexy._

And then she wondered, _is he expecting sex tonight?_ And though she knew he might be expecting it, though she figured enough time had elapsed from their re-coupling to now, she doubted that he was taking her out solely to old-fashioned _woo_ her. No, he wanted to share a meal with her, and that was so chivalrous and kind and wonderful of him, but she wished he would lose a few brain cells and say something like _fuck me_ and make it all more obvious. Wait, should she wear good underwear tonight? She winced at the thought of wearing a thong, a nice thong, she couldn’t do it, she really couldn’t, and because she still struggled with underwire bras, all she had left were frumpy padded ones a tone darker than her skin color - she couldn’t help being pale - and bralettes that, of course, would show in unflattering ways if she wore the red dress. So, no bra? But if the restaurant was cold, her nipples would show, and sometimes, that kind of rubbing worsened the breast pain, so the red dress was out, and she still couldn’t decide if they were going to have sex tonight. Could she even manage sex tonight? _Of course you can,_ she told herself, for after all, she did want to have sex with him, and she was attracted to him, and she’d had sex with worse people after dismal dates, but that answer only made her feel more insecure.

While she debated between two more dresses, one light blue and one dark, she heard Eric and Otis come home, their telltale laughs following them up the stairs.

“Jean!” Eric said as he and Otis busted through her bedroom door, just there to say hi. “I hear you have a date!”

And she must’ve looked nervous, for Eric, clad in a sparkly bomber jacket and a pair of striped pants, turned serious and sidled up to the edge of her bed, stared down at her selection. He looked to her, then to the dresses on the bed, and said, “The lilac absolutely has to _go._ ”

She managed to laugh, crossed her arms, asked, “Which one do you like best, then?”

For a moment, he deliberated on the others, and first, he pointed to the red one and shook his head, and that left the two blue ones, the light one cotton and the dark one silk. Eric folded his hands, seemed deep in thought.

“What kind of date is it?” Eric asked, stone-faced, so serious. “Like, do you like this man, or is it just so-so?”

And Jean thought, _well, I’m pregnant with his child, and I’m shockingly comfortable with that despite the near-incessant morning sickness and the inevitability that this will ruin both of our families, and he’s taking me to a fancy restaurant just because, and I’ve already told him that I’m in love with him, so there’s that._

“I mean, I like him,” she gave, and Otis leaned against the jamb of the door, unable to connect with the topic at hand.

“But what kind of _like_ is it,” Eric asked, “like, a _cutesy summertime picnic_ like or an _I want to be a queen in his eyes_ like.”

She must’ve grinned a little, for Eric smiled and nodded in understanding, then pointed to the dark blue silk dress, absolutely sure of his decision.

And the dress was long and comfortable, a strapless silk wrap that felt like a hug, and the fireplace in the restaurant - electric, but still a fireplace - was warm enough that despite the weather she felt comfortable, and when he came to her home to pick her up, he stared a little too long and made her feel an awkward kind of special, and she’d wished that Eric had been there to watch instead of upstairs playing video games with Otis, for Eric would’ve had confirmation that his _I want to be a queen_ dress had been the right pick. 

“Have you had escargot before?” Jakob asked, one of their four appetizers. They were the only diners tonight who weren’t drinking wine.

“A long time ago, yes,” she gave, back when she and Otis went on that wretched French vacation and she ended up with food poisoning, though that food poisoning at least hadn’t been caused by escargot. 

“I made the mistake of never asking if you liked French food,” he said, sheepish smile, a small apology.

“When Otis was younger, we went to France together,” Jean said, sipping her water as if it were wine, not sure where to put her hands now that she didn’t have thin glass stem to hold between her fingers.

“How was it?”

“Have you ever been?”

“No, never.”

“Well,” she gave, crossing one leg over the other, brushing the toe of her shoe against his pantleg, “I very promptly got food poisoning, and Otis ended up a hundred miles away because he took the wrong train.”

“Oh.” Jakob laughed awkwardly. “Whoops.”

“We’ll have to go sometime,” she said, brushing off the topic. “There’s that train that goes underneath the channel starting from London. Only takes two hours or something.”

“Would you like to do that?”

And the earnestness on his face made her realize that no, this wasn’t a hypothetical, not in the least, and she’d even been the one to propose that it not be hypothetical. She’d said they would have to go sometime. She’d said they should take a train to London, then a train to Paris, then a train any which way in France. She’d said they ought to go sometime.

“Well,” she backtracked, and thankfully, he didn’t seem insulted, “maybe not soon. But, sure, yeah, that would be fine.”

He ordered coq au vin; she ordered ratatouille. They swapped bites on each other’s forks, held out across the table, strange little offerings. He insisted on chocolate mousse for dessert.

“No, really, I’m stuffed,” Jean said, shaking her head as he ordered. “No dessert.”

But there were two spoons in front of them, and the top of the mousse looked airy and sleek, and she could smell the chocolate, thick and decadent, dark enough to satisfy any chocolate lover, and she did so love chocolate. When Jakob dipped his own spoon in, she almost felt violated, as if he’d slapped her by eating the dessert he had ordered while she refused to partake in that course of the meal. And once she begrudgingly stuck the second spoon in, he backed off and smiled, watched as she closed her eyes in pleasure at the taste, so thick and creamy, chocolate so dark that it would keep her up all night, and she liked the exposed brick in this restaurant. She liked the low lighting that made her struggle to read the menu. Against her own tendencies, she even liked that she could propose an impromptu French vacation without thinking about it. This was a date, and she was eating his chocolate mousse, and she’d only vomited once that day, and he was smiling at her. This was good. This was all very good.

As they were heading out, about to find their coats and her shawl in the coat check, they saw a couple standing in front of the electric fireplace and trying to take a selfie together; Jakob gently touched the small of Jean’s back before heading over to the couple, asking if they would like him to take a picture, and the two gushed - they looked so young to Jean, so fresh, his shoes scuffed leather and her hair so sleek and straight - and thanked Jakob for coming over. Joining alongside him, Jean watched as Jakob held up the couple’s phone, positioned the picture perfectly. She furrowed her brow, unsure how he, the less tech-literate of the two of them, knew how to take a picture on one of those phones when she did not.

“Since when do you know how all of that works?” she whispered to him as he took a few extra pictures and asked the man to look up. 

“Alma has this Instagram,” Jakob said, shaking his head. “I am always taking pictures.”

And once Jakob was done, the couple asked if Jean and Jakob would like a picture in return, and though Jean went to say thank you but no, Jakob smiled and said _yes_ and was pulling Jean toward the fireplace, the hearth there unnecessary and put up only for the sake of the aesthetic but pretty nonetheless, twinkle lights hung over top to prove that this restaurant was hip and with the times. Wrapping one arm around Jean’s back, Jakob stood close enough to the fire that they could both feel the electric warmth against the backs of their legs, and though she hated having pictures of herself taken, it felt strangely natural to lean toward Jakob, rest her palm on his chest, and smile. They didn’t have any pictures of them together, and when others asked her what he looked like, each time she felt the newness of their relationship, the fact that they had only really been together for three weeks now. Of course, they’d been together for a little while beforehand, and if she really wanted to, she could extend the duration of their relationship to a month and a half, maybe even two or three months, but the reality was that they were three weeks in and still learning basic things about each other. Though they both felt as if they’d had more time together, there were some parts of a relationship that required time, and those parts of their relationship were still immature. It didn’t matter that she was pregnant, that she’d awkwardly told him she loved him, that they were committed in ways they had yet to discuss, that he felt comfortable inviting her to Christmas with his family and that she felt comfortable with the idea of going to Paris with him for a weekend: they still didn’t have any pictures of them together, and if a distant friend asked who she was dating, she would have to admit that she and Jakob weren’t even friends on Facebook. She would have to admit that she didn’t know if he had a Facebook account at all.

But she smiled genuinely in the pictures because now they would have pictures together. Soon enough, this wouldn’t be their only picture together; they’d take more, maybe on a weekend in Paris, maybe on her porch, maybe in his garden. She smiled at the relief she felt as they moved forward.

“Could you text that to me?” she asked as she wound her shawl around her neck, as he helped her into her coat. “The picture, I mean.”

“Of course,” he said, and he held open the restaurant’s door for her, then opened the passenger’s door of his car for her as well.

* * *

She knew how dates worked. 

“Would you like to come in?” she asked after he parked in front of her home, and he said yes, turned the engine off, and followed her down the steps and toward the front door.

So far as she could tell, Otis wasn’t home, no bike parked outside, no hanging coat, and her thoughts went quickly from where he could be to how Jakob was palming her hips, leaning down to kiss her before she could even leave her handbag by the door. They were both still wearing coats. She thought her breath might taste rancid but hadn’t had time to check. Though he was quick to kiss her, there was an unnerving slowness to his movements too, the way he slipped his thumb down the side of her dress, the way he leaned in toward her, and the pace felt off, not like before, not like the way he would pick her up and carry her to bed as if they were outrunning ghosts in her home, slamming the door shut behind them and laughing when that made the pictures on the wall tilt crooked. He was savoring her. Skirting the tie of her dress, he alluded to something more, something to come, and as she always did every few months, she was going through a phase of believing bikini waxes to be the ultimate patriarchal oppression, but then, she felt herself slip into the next inevitable phase, one usually coupled with a new man temporarily in her bed, in which she decided that it was her body to do what she pleased with and that she liked bikini waxes actually. When he broke off the kiss, she wondered if she would look different naked this time, then wondered if he’d ever really known what her body looked like at all.

He took to her coat, and she pulled at his, and it was inelegant in the way it was supposed to be, but when he let her shawl fall to the floor, she felt a pang in her gut, glanced down at it in a heap and wished she could pick it back up, but he was kissing her again, arms behind his back as he slipped out of his sport coat, and she couldn't stop now, could she?

“Pick me up,” she said, too breathy, almost pornlike, she winced with the sound. "Take me upstairs."

And he listened like he always did, but he was gentler this time, as if any passionate bruises he were to leave on the back of her thighs would be accidental and in poor taste, not a reminder of something good. She liked that he was strong. She liked that he built furniture and fixed things and knew how to cook. Wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, she brought her palms to his cheeks and kissed him again, subtle distraction, he ran into the wall and made her laugh, and yes, that was how it was meant to go. This was choreographed. She had each movement memorized. It didn’t matter who he was; the dance was the same each time, but he shut the door to her bedroom softly now, and she knew that this wasn’t right. Could she ask him to slam it instead? The next time they talked about sexual preferences, she would have to tell him that she preferred doors slammed, not shut softly, and she thought it was pointless to spend a long time kissing slowly in her doorway, and that this was taking too long already, she was fine, and even if she wasn’t, she had things in her bedside table’s drawer for that because, after all, she was getting old, and she’d already confirmed that she was perimenopausal. And he was bringing her down onto the bed, man on top, he should’ve known better, and she watched as he started unbuttoning his shirt, loosening his tie, and she stayed still. She rested her head against the in-between of the pillows on her bed and let him undress himself. When he took to his belt, she glanced toward the window, and to her surprise, it had begun to rain outside.

His body was above hers, looming, warm and attractive, and he smelled good, and he touched her so gently, and she took deep breaths and brought her hands over his as he kissed her. She guided him to the tie of her dress, then reached up to hold his cheek, an offering, an acceptance. When he pulled back from her, she watched as his fingers undid the tie of her dress, then peeled back the silk fabric over her body, bare to him now, unraveled, and he paused for a moment, not in her plans, not what he was meant to do. Though she wanted to reach out for him, reel him back in, she found that she couldn’t move, that the way he looked up at her pinned her to the bed, that she found it harder to breathe when he looked at her so wide-eyed and mesmerized. 

As he brought the back of his hand to her cheek, she flinched, thinking that he meant to hit her though he only meant to caress. He had soft hands, abnormally soft, and he worked with them all day too, so he must’ve used some kind of cream. Could he feel the wrinkles of her skin? Would that turn him off? No, it shouldn’t, he was older than her though not by much, it would be hypocritical for her age to turn him off. The room felt too warm. She wanted to take a shower.

And he was kissing her again, and she didn’t even need to ask him not to touch her breasts because he was attentive and gentle and kind, and she brought her ankle around the back of his thigh, tried to pull him to her, and her heart was pounding because now things were going to be normal again. She was anxious for this to be over because then they would have managed another milestone in their relationship. She felt dizzy because she wanted him inside of her. Her muscles were tense with the anticipation.

When he started kissing her neck, she brought her arms around him and closed her eyes, took a deep breath, but she couldn’t breathe, not with him on top of her, and her heart was still pounding, and she knew it wasn’t the neck kisses. The nervous pangs, the sweaty feeling of knowing something wasn’t right, she wanted him off of her, and she wanted to take a shower, and she wanted him to go home. As he kissed her collarbone, she tensed, and if she just tried to breathe through it all, she would be okay, wouldn’t she? She knew how to relax her muscles. She knew it would hurt more if she was tense the whole time. If she managed to calm herself down, then she would be fine, maybe not an active participant but still fine. Afterward, she would ask him to bring her a towel from the bathroom, and she would have a minute to compose herself, to comfort herself before she needed to sleep alongside him. Maybe she could convince him to head home, claiming that Otis had something he needed to do in the morning and that she needed to drive him there, yes, that would work, and then, he would go home, and she would have some time to herself, and it wouldn’t be the perfect night, but at least he hadn’t wasted the money he'd spent on dinner. Once Jakob was done, she would ask for a towel, then say he couldn’t spend the night, and it would be fine. It would all be fine.

But he thumbed her hip, right where her underwear was beneath the skirt, and she couldn’t do this, not tonight, not at all, and she couldn’t breathe, and he was suffocating her, but it wasn’t him suffocating her, no, not at all, not with his gentle touches and the ways he so sweetly embraced her. No, she was suffocating herself but blaming him instead.

“Stop,” she whispered, too quiet, she wondered if he could hear her at all. “Please stop.”

He stilled, and the stillness felt like a slap to her, and when she described such things to her patients, she imagined a promising _afterward_ in which everyone cuddled instead, but this stillness showed no promise of that afterward.

“Stop?” he asked, looking for confirmation even after he’d stopped altogether, looking for elaboration that she knew she couldn’t offer.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, then forced her way out from under him, dipping underneath one of his arms and tugging her dress back on, wobbling on foal legs as she left the bedroom, ducked into the dark bathroom, and locked the door. 

Here, the sound of the rain was clear and audible, drowning out most other noise. She sat down on the floor, leaned against the bathtub, and forced herself to take deep breaths as the soft storm turned to pouring rain, fat drops against her window, an October cold and unapproachable and forcing the leaves off of the trees. In spring, the snow would melt and reveal those same leaves, and she would wonder if she would ever see grass again, just grass, maybe even a meadow, or if those leaves would cover up all of the green, brown and rotting detritus dulling the world. Wiping at her face, stupid hot tears, she tried to keep quiet, keep calm, manage his expectations, but she couldn’t avoid her reality: she couldn’t have sex with him now even though she’d had sex with him plenty of times before. When she thought of reentering the bedroom, of seeing him again, she winced, and none of this was his fault, she knew that with such clarity, but she couldn’t face him again nonetheless, couldn’t explain that to him if she tried. She didn’t want him to cuddle her instead. She didn’t want to see him at all. No, she wanted him to go home, and she wanted not to think about any of this, but she knew that she couldn’t ask him to go home, and she absolutely knew that she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it all, so she held her face in her hands and tried to cry quietly, just enough to purge the emotion, just enough so that she could face him again.

She heard the bedroom door open and close, so she tensed again as if she were a hunted animal, but he never came to the bathroom door, instead walked down the stairs - she heard each individual creak so clearly. _Maybe he’s leaving,_ she thought, and though that had been her hope, she felt an uncomfortable devastation as she listened for the opening and closing of the front door, probably too far away for her to hear at all. Why would he leave? She hadn’t asked him to leave. Maybe she wanted him to hold her. _No, you don’t,_ she told herself, and though she knew it was true, she wished it weren’t, for then she would have some kind of direction. Regardless of where he went, he wasn’t looking for her, so she softened, no more expectations, no need to fit a narrative. She didn’t need to hold back, so she let herself cry, no restrictions, no need to stay quiet. Outside, there was a lightning strike that strobed through the bathroom, but she only noticed the light from in between her fingers as she hid from the world. No matter what was happening elsewhere, she was fine. She was fine. She was fine.

After she’d composed herself, had managed to form an astute and unconversational explanation, she crept back toward the bedroom, and as she’d expected, he wasn’t there anymore, the bed still rustled but Jakob gone. On her bedside table, he’d left a note, so she sat down on her side of the bed and held it up to read, needing to squint in order to see in the darkness.

_I’m sorry that I took things too far. I’m on the couch if you would like to talk, but I thought you might want some space. Unless you ask me to stay, I’ll leave before you wake up tomorrow. Please let me know how I can help when you’re ready._

And of course he’d gone downstairs to sleep on the couch, not leaving but not staying either, the in-between she hadn’t known to ask for. Of course he knew that she would want space. It was more painful, she thought, for him to understand her and face how she couldn’t be intimate with him than for him to not understand her at all and face the same. 

Outside, the rain kept pouring, and she knew she wasn’t going to sleep at all tonight.

* * *

“You and I have different definitions of the word _emergency,_ ” Catherine gave, then covered a yawn and turned to a new page in her notebook. 

It was Saturday morning, and Catherine, who always dressed so posh, was wearing jeans and a tank top plus a stained cardigan. The roots of her hair looked uncomfortably greasy.

“It was like I turned into a whole different person,” Jean continued, not perturbed by Catherine’s comment, unable to stop talking, for if she stopped talking, then she would lose... _it,_ whatever _it_ could be. For someone who preached that emotions could never physically harm oneself, she tended to be frightened by her own as if she were one anxiety attack away from needing a pacemaker.

When she woke up in the morning, she found Jakob’s side of the bed still unmade and empty, and downstairs, Otis was making himself toast and asking if they had any plans for dinner that night. The couch looked undisturbed and almost as if the cushions had been fluffed. As per his note, Jakob had left, and he’d hung her coat and shawl on their respective hooks by the door in the process. He’d texted asking if she was alright, but she refused to view the message itself, to let it go to _read_ on her phone.

“I lost it,” she said, bringing her head to her hands, elbows sharp against her thighs, the chairs in Catherine’s office somehow far more uncomfortable now than they were during the week. “I told him to stop as if he were hurting me. And then I... _escaped._ ”

“You’ve taken things very quickly together,” Catherine said, her tone emphasizing that she was stating the obvious. “You’re only overwhelmed.”

“Yes, but I’m overwhelmed when he bakes me a _birthday cake,_ not when he tries to have sex with me,” Jean said, also trying to state the obvious. “I _know_ sex. I know how all of that works. You can’t try to explain that to me. I have the edge here. We both _know_ that I have the edge here.”

“Degree or no degree,” Catherine said, then looked down at her nails as if she longed to file them in that moment, “you’re still human.”

With her head in her hands, Jean sighed, for either Catherine couldn’t understand the gravity of her situation, or - and Jean figured that this was the more probable answer - there wasn’t anything peculiar about Jean’s situation and, therefore, Jean should cope with it on her own, maybe even - and she dreaded the thought of it - have a _discussion_ with Jakob about the night beforehand. Though he’d asked her if she was alright, she couldn’t respond, couldn’t say she was okay and then expect that the same sequence of events would happen next weekend. No, she was inept, and if she couldn’t figure out _why,_ then their relationship would be over. Why couldn’t Catherine see that?

“You put a lot of value into sex,” Catherine said, and _here we go,_ right into the psychoanalyzation. _Tell me, Catherine,_ Jean thought, _does this have to do with my relationship with my mother?_

“Yes, I think so,” Jean gave. “It’s my livelihood, after all.”

“So you might define yourself by your ability to have sex, then.”

“I...might.”

“This happens in plenty of relationships,” Catherine said. “Good, strong ones. Sometimes, it’s all just too much.”

“Yes, but-”

“Was there anything different about this night in particular?”

Jean sighed. “Such as?”

“Did he want to try something new?” Catherine asked.

“In bed?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She had to think for a moment, for had he proposed anal sex, she would’ve remembered, but because he hadn’t done such a thing, she struggled to compare that night to any other. “We went to the new French restaurant nearby.”

Catherine whistled, said, “That place isn’t cheap.”

“He wouldn’t let me look at the bill,” she said, grimacing, “and the menu didn’t list prices.”

“So he wanted a romantic night out.”

“He likes cooking,” Jean said, minimizing in theory but only telling the truth. 

He _loved_ cooking. He loved food. He only wanted to go to that restaurant because he loved food.

“Do you go on dates together often?” Catherine asked. “No kids with you?”

“Not really,” Jean gave, and she could feel that creeping sensation of knowing that her therapist had figured her out while she herself didn’t want to understand at all. 

“So,” Catherine said, giving out all of the facts, “he takes you to an expensive and romantic restaurant, he dresses up for you, and none of that is normal for you two.”

“I mean, technically that’s correct-”

“It’s just _new,_ Jean,” Catherine said, as if it really were that simple. “You’ve been so sick recently, and now, you’re going out on big dates with him as if nothing’s changed. It was too much, and you were overwhelmed. And you did the right thing when you asked him to stop. If you discuss it all now, I’m sure everything will go back to normal.”

“But it won’t,” Jean said, shaking her head, “because I can’t have sex with him.”

“You don’t need to have sex with him.”

“But I _want_ to.”

“Then go have sex with him,” Catherine said, shrugging it off. “Ring him. I’m sure he’ll come running.”

And Jean sighed, so Catherine backtracked, gave, “Maybe you don’t want to have sex with him _yet._ That’s okay, Jean. It doesn’t matter if you two have had sex in the past. This is new, and the circumstances are different now. You feel differently about him than you did before. Give it time. You’ll find your way. You just need to relax in the meantime.” 

Nodding, Jean closed her eyes, the awkward forced acceptance, the reality that Catherine was right even though Jean didn’t want her to be. She opened her eyes and looked out the window of Catherine’s office, lush green fields and trees with changing leaves, a different season from the one when Jean and Jakob stood in front of the wide windows in his client’s house and ended things. Though logically she understood that she needed to give their relationship time, emotionally she struggled to realize what that meant. For now, she might not be able to have sex with him, but as time went on, maybe she would find it easier to be intimate with him. Maybe she wouldn’t feel as if they needed sex in their relationship, and once she realized that, she would be able to take things slowly, ease into what she really wanted. _Not now, but someday,_ she thought, then added, _and soon._

“I like your scarf, by the way,” Catherine said as she and Jean took their respective coats off of the hooks in her office. Of course, Catherine didn’t have any other clients on Saturday, so they were leaving together. “It’s such a pretty color. What color would you call that?”

When Jean left for Catherine’s office, she’d known that more rain was on the forecast, so she wore her wellies and raincoat, then put her shawl back on because she hated the thought of not wearing it, and as she felt the material between her fingers, as she took her shawl down from its hook by the door, she imagined Jakob hanging it back up while she cried in the bathroom upstairs, imagined him upset that he’d caused her harm and wondering what he could write on a note that would tell her he was sorry.

“Thanks,” Jean said. “I don’t know, really. Slate grey?”

“It’s much more blue than grey,” Catherine gave. “So pretty.”

As Jean walked out to her car, she could feel the first little drops of rain, the scent of the air changing, a different pressure. She watched from the driver’s seat while little pinprick drops fell on her windshield, the wind rustling the leaves on the trees, a quiet kind of half-chaos. Sometime soon, she would need to text Jakob, but she wouldn’t answer his message yet, not while she still felt hollow and nervous, not while her mind felt jumbled. Instead, she would go home and relax, for Catherine had been right about all of it. This was new, life was stressful right now, and only a week or two earlier had Jean spent her days preoccupied with whether or not she could manage to eat. She was stressed for understandable reasons, and it was too much for her, so she needed to find a way to relax. Curling up on the couch, maybe? She had a rainy Saturday and no plans, and for once, that felt like a great opportunity rather than a terrible inconvenience. 

She turned the key in the ignition with only aimless destinations in mind.

* * *

Two slices of ciabatta, she shoved the knife down through the loaf and tore off hunks. Because the slices were too big to fit in the toaster, she put them on a sheet tray and into the oven, then crouched at window-height, watched as the bread browned on top. When she passed by a local bakery as she drove home from Catherine's office, she found herself pulling into its parking lot, then heading inside. It was raining, and she was wearing her raincoat and boots, hood pulled up, shawl wrapped around her neck, hands in her pockets. In the main display case, there were almond croissants, flaky little pastries, some savory and others sweet, and they had espresso if she would like some, even affrogatos for a treat. The girl working there couldn’t have been much older than Otis, and she had a nose ring and reminded Jean of Ola, the same pep in her step too. So, ciabatta, a loaf of ciabatta, and she wanted an almond croissant as well, make that two. And one of those spinach puff pastries, if that was alright. The girl packed the pastries into a little box, the loaf of bread going into a folded-over paper bag, and impulsively, Jean asked the girl if they had spare sourdough starter, and the girl said _yeah, sure_ as if that were the most normal question in the world. 

“Keep it warm out there,” the girl said as she handed Jean a little soup container full of starter, then looked out the wide bakery windows, gold lettering flaunting the establishment date. “Don’t want it to die out in the cold.”

Back home, Jean had to search on the internet for how to store sourdough starter because she hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do with this sludge. It was only four in the afternoon, and she didn’t have solid plans for the rest of the day, and though she ought to do some bookkeeping, she was surrounded by bread and starving, so she cut up ciabatta, nibbled the hard, crusty edge as she waited for her slices in the oven to toast. When Otis opened the door, came home from hanging with friends, she heard the incessant pounding of the rain and felt her eyes widen. She’d meant to offer him a ride home.

“Otis?” she called out, then opened the oven and took her toast slices out, the edges of one slightly burnt. “Darling, I meant to call you. I was going to come pick you up.”

“You texted me that,” he said as he undressed in the entryway, shook the rain off of his coat.

Yes, she had, could remember taking out her phone as she sat in the bakery’s parking lot, raindrops fat on her windshield, the strange feeling of being so close to harsh weather but entirely protected from it. 

“Why didn’t you respond?” she asked, brow furrowed, arms held awkwardly at her sides as she watched him hang up his coat, drops falling onto the entryway’s mat. 

And he sighed, and she felt her heart pound. He was hurting. That was why.

“Well, come in, come in,” she said, waving him forward, trying to find a clean dishtowel for his sopping hair. “I don’t want you to catch a cold.”

Though she knew that he wouldn’t end up sick from the rain, she still felt as if that were the proper thing to say, and she handed him a red gingham towel, and he scrunched at his hair with it, his jeans stained in little patches. 

“And go get changed,” she said, not wanting him to drip onto the carpets or furniture. “I have a load of laundry to do anyway.” 

“What’s that on the counter?”

He was pointing to her starter with one hand, his other brushing the towel over his neck.

“Sourdough starter,” she conceded, then flipped her hands up at him, pushed him out of the kitchen. “Try not to get the floors wet.”

Outside, the rain was pouring, fat drops hitting the glass doors leading out to the porch, and she had two slices of toasted ciabatta on a sheet pan, and after her little birthday celebration, Jakob left two jars of raspberry jam on the kitchen counter, twine wrapped around the glass necks and little paper labels saying that one was for Jean, the other for Otis. Though she didn’t know how to open old-fashioned glass jars, she wrestled with a bottle opener until she broke the seal she and Ola had so painstakingly put on. Butter first, then jam, and Jakob left some kind of artsy butter in her fridge, leftovers from her birthday dinner, Irish in origin and salted and grass-fed for whatever that meant, and though she wasn’t sure that there would be a flavor difference, she found it melted easier than the sticks she regularly bought did. 

She wanted to put her feet up. She wanted to wear thick wool socks and watch a movie. She wanted to eat nothing but bread until the day she died. Sitting down on the couch, she slouched so she could put her feet up on the coffee-table, rested the plate with her buttered-and-jammed toast slices on her belly, then stilled for a moment before slipping the plate further down onto her lap, resting it on the tops of her thighs instead. One bite, and the raspberries were so _tart_ that all of the sugar she and Ola had added was welcome, seeds and sourness and sweetness and the tangy, creamy taste of the butter and sourdough mixing together. Had she been this hungry all along? She never wanted to eat anything other than bread again. If she reached out really far with her left foot and managed an acrobatic leg-squeeze toe-touch maneuver, then she could get the remote off of the coffee-table and turn the television on. She had recorded the next episodes of Love Island. Though she’d thought that Kendra was a bitch, she kind of wanted to see if Kendra and Billy ended up together, or really just what Billy looked like without a top on. 

“Sparse dinner,” Otis gave as he came back downstairs, as he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and sat down beside her.

She looked down at her plate, one slice of bread remaining, said, “Just a snack.”

“Have you suddenly learned to bake?”

Though he was normally a little sly and sarcastic, he never seemed ill-willed with that sarcasm, but now, he was toned-down and dark, and she sobered as she looked at him, then tried to calm herself, not betray her exterior. He was upset, and if she overreacted, then he would never tell her why.

“There’re croissants in the bag on the counter,” she gave. “I went to the bakery in town. Got almond ones, your favorite.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

He turned on the television. The first _Lord of the Rings_ was playing, maybe halfway through the movie. _One does not simply walk into Mordor._

“I say we order in,” Jean gave as Otis relaxed on the couch, resigned to their cabled fate. The rain outside was so loud that Otis had to turn the volume up.

“Sure,” Otis said, then seemed to shut off, as if he were blocking her from his thoughts and emotions. He really didn’t want to let her in.

For once, she decided to listen, so she picked up her next piece of toast, crossed her ankles on top of the coffee table. She really ought to call Jakob, or even just send him a text message, but she completely, totally, wholeheartedly didn’t want to, her phone left in her handbag on the counter, maybe out of power for all she knew. Though Catherine had been helpful in organizing Jean's thought, Catherine had been woefully unhelpful with creating a plan of action, and now, she was sitting next to her angry-for-reasons-she-didn’t-know son while neglecting to contact her boyfriend-she-couldn’t-have-sex-with and eating bread and planning on eating nothing but bread for the foreseeable future. Worst of all, her toes were cold, and she wanted a pair of socks, but she was residually anxious from the night before, the therapy session, the rain hitting her windshield as she drove home, and she felt she was a special kind of useless, a demeaning and burst-into-tears kind, because she couldn’t bring herself to attend to a small and basic need. It would be so easy to just stand up, walk upstairs, find a pair of socks, and put those socks on, but each time she tried to get up, she found herself only sinking deeper into the couch, resigned to her fate, resigned to cold toes. Was this the decision fatigue she read about when she skimmed through and then abandoned self-help books? She really wanted a pair of warm socks.

“Mum?” Otis asked after a fight scene, right as the sound faded. 

The sun, what little of it peeked through the rainclouds, was starting to go down. She was tired and wanted Jakob to come and cover her in a blanket, but she couldn’t have sex with him, and she also couldn’t text him. She thought of her shawl hung on a hook by the door and felt a repugnant kind of yearning.

She hummed in response, looked over at her son, tried to act nonchalant because she didn’t want to scare him away.

“What are signs of being in a bad relationship?”

And she felt the familiar stomach-drop of having her child say something horrifying to her, the immediacy of the sweat coming to her brow, her heart pounding and that awful sensation like frost forming on her skin, an ache, an abnormal burn. She knew to be terrified without understanding why. When he looked to her with uncomfortable vulnerability on his face, she couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want a lecture,” he said, not combative, only exhausted, “but I need your help.”

She needed to act as if he were a patient, for if she didn’t, then she would start crying, or she would vomit, or she would faint, and this was the worst part of being a parent, how she needed to be strong when she felt so much more terrified than he did. It was one thing to be hurt but another to watch a loved one - and a child, a _child_ , her child in particular - be hurt. Though Remi could cheat on her, could walk out and catch sexually transmitted diseases while she was pregnant, could fuck patients and hotel concierges and maybe even friends of theirs, she drew the line when their son caught him. The visceral fear she’d felt as Otis asked why his father had been with that lady was back now, only this time she fretted over how he now understood that sometimes people cause pain for reasons that can’t easily be forgiven.

“Well,” she started, and she knew that her tone sounded like that of a lecture, but she wasn’t sure how to speak without giving away her fear, anger, sadness, or woe, so she tried being clinical instead and hoped for the best, “there are the more obvious signs, though those signs are hard to see while in the relationship itself. Possessiveness, manipulation, isolation...when your partner uses these tactics, it can be hard to see their psychological harm.”

“Can you give an example of each of those?”

She furrowed her brow, surprised that he couldn’t think of his own, so he sighed, furthered, “Just to be clear.”

“If a relationship is overly possessive, then one party might grow upset when the other spends time with other friends and become combative when others show closeness with their partner. Sometimes, one partner will isolate the other from friends, controlling actions and not allowing their partner to see certain friends or family members.”

“What about manipulation?”

“I think that’s the hardest one to define,” she gave, this answer the same as the one she offered her patients, “but the best way I’ve found to look at it is to think of a life without this person and wonder how things would have been different. What actions would you have taken? What actions _wouldn’t_ you have taken? And what moral value do these actions have for you?”

“So, like,” Otis started, “if I never met Eric, for instance.”

“Are you and Eric-”

“No, no, no,” Otis said, shaking his head. “Just the first person I could think of.”

“Okay. Good. Yes, Eric. For instance.”

“I wouldn’t know as much about the LGBT community had I never met Eric,” Otis gave, “and I don’t think I’d have gotten into _Hedwig_. I think I would be less adventurous.”

“Do you like yourself more with Eric in your life?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Do you think that knowing Eric has made you a better person?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what about this other person you’ve mentioned?”

He sighed, shook his head, and said, “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

And he huffed because it was, in fact, that simple, and had she not been so concerned for him, she would’ve felt smug.

“It’s like...this person, I think they’re great,” he said, then backtracked. “No, I think they’re...special. They’re really special. I care about them very much. They’re really worth knowing. I couldn’t say that they weren’t worth knowing.”

“But?”

“But,” he said, “I feel as if all I do is cause them pain, but at the same time, that pain is never really my fault.”

“How so?”

“They ask things of me, and when I try to say no, it’s as if suddenly I’m at fault for every problem in their life. And I have it really easy in comparison to them, so it’s hard not to give in and do what they ask. I’d want them to do the same for me, right? So I ought to help them, but in the end, I always feel as if I’ve hurt them in some way. And I understand that things are hard for them, but sometimes I have to do other things. I have to help myself first, and whenever I’m with them, I feel as though doing just that is a transgression.”

Weighing her words, Jean managed, “You do realize that such experiences aren’t part of a healthy relationship.”

“But there has to be some way to _fix_ it,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice, and she hurt for him. “I’ve been trying to find a way all afternoon, but I can’t find one.”

“You could ask for some space,” Jean gave. “Maybe establish some boundaries.”

“Why does it feel as if I’m casting this person out if I have boundaries?”

Jean sighed, said, “Because they don’t have a stable sense of self and need you to provide one.”

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” he gave, underlying anger. She didn’t know whether to scold or praise him.

“But you need to learn to say no to this person,” Jean said, trying to sound firm, “because if you can’t, then you’re setting yourself up for a world of hurt.”

“How do I deal with letting them down, though?”

“You let go of their expectations,” she gave for lack of a better answer, “and try to move on.”

And the movie played on, Gimli and Legolas making jokes at each other’s expense, Jean had had such a crush on Orlando Bloom back when these movies first came out. Somewhere on the bookshelves, she had illustrated, abridged versions of these books, and when Otis was six or seven, she started reading them to him, clutching him on her lap and letting him turn the pages because doing so made him feel grown-up. Though her older Otis was better for conversation, more interested in valuable things like educated conversation, emotions explained through a complex understanding of language, and, well, vegetables, she wished that even now she could scoop him up onto her lap, wrap her arms around him, and tell him that things would be alright. Even more, she wished that he would believe her when she spoke those words. But alongside her he was starting to breathe deeper, his posture growing less tense, and when his stomach grumbled, she made a quip about ordering a pizza, and he said yeah, totally, can we? Would that be alright? And of course it was alright, what else would they do, _cook?_ Oh, absolutely not. And maybe he couldn’t blindly trust her anymore, but what he could do was trust himself, and as he went over to her handbag, took out her phone, brought it over to her and asked if his half could have pineapple on top, she could see that he was learning to trust himself instead. 

“Half pineapple?” she scoffed. “No. You _know_ I hate that.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re boring.”

He plopped down alongside her on the couch, then used the remote to turn down the television’s volume. 

“I don’t know what mistakes I could have made,” she said as she dialed for their favorite pizzeria, “to end up raising a son who likes _pineapple_ on his _pizza._ ”

“Can we get garlic knots too?”

“Of course we’re getting garlic knots,” Jean gave. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“And a Greek salad?”

“No, we are absolutely _not_ -”

“Kidding! Just kidding!”

She playfully slapped his shoulder and shook her head, and once someone picked up her call, she ordered one margherita pizza with extra basil, then one with pineapple on top - Otis put up his fists in triumph - and garlic knots, lots of garlic knots, she especially liked heating up some of the jarred tomato sauce she got from the farmer's market in the summer and having cold garlic knots dipped in the sauce as breakfast the next morning. And maybe Jakob knew how to make garlic knots. She had a theory that he could cook much of anything, and surely, he would know what to do with a sourdough starter. If she asked him to help her bake bread, she knew he would say yes, and then let her wear his favorite apron while she stood wedge-free and short in his kitchen, and knead the dough with such care that the thought of those same hands touching her face would no longer make her feel anxious.

Their dinner would be delivered in twenty minutes, and while a commercial aired, Otis said that he would do the laundry if she brought her clothes down - though he was horrible at sorting what could and couldn’t be machine-washed, she couldn’t really blame him, for her closet was a vast array of strange washing instructions and dire consequences when washed incorrectly - so she went upstairs, her phone in her pocket. She still hadn’t made her bed since the night beforehand. In the morning, she saw that Jakob had left, ate an awkward breakfast with her son, and called Catherine, not the Saturday morning she’d expected, and in her rush, she’d neglected to make her bed. Though to others such a difference would go unnoticed, she could see that this bit of disarray was one sign that she needed to slow down, give herself a chance to breathe, and figure out what would make things better right now. She knew that she needed to contact Jakob, and downstairs, there was a neglected sourdough starter on her counter - she still couldn’t determine if it should be refrigerated - and she could lead with that.

She texted him, _I got some sourdough starter from a bakery today. Their ciabatta was lovely with raspberry jam._

Though she had to wait a few minutes for him to respond, only heard her phone ping when she was midway through sorting her clothes for washing, she was glad that she managed to reach him before she headed back downstairs.

_I can teach you to bake bread_

_I would appreciate that, but first, I need to know if it goes in the fridge or not_

_Yes, fridge for now. But give it a scoop of flour first and stir_

_I know nothing about fermentation_

_You’ll learn with ease_

_I’m sorry about last night_

When she saw that he wasn’t typing a response, when she managed to finish sorting her laundry without hearing more from him, she tried to think of a follow-up, a way to elaborate. Had she received such a text, she too wouldn’t have known how to respond.

_I keep forgetting that we’re taking things so fast. It doesn’t feel fast, and then, all of the sudden, I feel as if the room’s spinning_

_Me too_

She took a deep breath, the discomfort of vulnerability, she really didn’t want to have _a discussion_ about this. She wanted to stop having _discussions_ altogether. Each time, she ended up causing a problem, and either she apologized or they both listed out their expectations, their boundaries, _whatever,_ and she was tired of it all. Though she knew that relationships took work, she also knew that there was ease somewhere within all of this, and Catherine had been right in saying that she needed to calm down, take it easy, reduce stress as much as possible. After weeks spent being sick, wondering what the future would hold, watching Jakob’s daughter hate her, she needed to find a way to calm down, and she couldn’t do that if they kept needing to have _discussions_ about her shortcomings, his shortcomings, their relationship’s shortcomings, the lack of viability in a post-divorce adult relationship with the uncomfortable bonus of young adult children still living at home. 

But she wasn’t ready for sex yet, and that didn’t require a discussion, did it? Deleting the long paragraph of explanation she’d typed, she put in a far shorter message, then hit send.

_I’m not ready yet, but I will be. Just not yet. I hope that’s okay_

_Of course it’s okay_

And then he sent her one of the pictures that the other couple at the restaurant took, the fake hearth and little twinkle lights, her palm on his chest, the oceanic ripples of her dress, the way he held her with practiced ease. They looked happy, but better than the look was that she knew she _was_ happy in the picture, that she was so full because of the chocolate mousse and that she was glad that he would be driving him home, that she brimmed with nervousness because she wanted to - and, in the end, did - hold his hand while he drove down a straightaway. Finally, a picture of the two of them together. Finally, a clear, concise step forward.

He sent another message after the image.

_I like this picture :-)_

She saved the picture, and when she saw the option to make it her lock screen background, she hesitated. For now, she had a picture of an orchid she had since killed as her lock screen background, and though she liked pictures of flowers, she thought about setting this new picture as her background and found she couldn’t _not_ do it. There they were, framed beneath the time and date, his hair popping up near where her WiFi signal was indicated. There they were.

_Me too_

From downstairs, Otis called up to her, told her he needed money for their dinner delivery, so she slipped her phone back into her pocket, picked up her basket of laundry, and headed downstairs.


	8. Chapter 8

“Jean?” 

She was about two minutes away from crossing her legs and doing some breathing exercises, or maybe the breathing exercises were a bad idea. If she relaxed at all, she feared her bladder might burst.

“What?” she asked, her annoyance all too obvious in her tone.

While they sat in a waiting room ten minutes after their dating ultrasound was supposed to begin, she didn’t want to talk to Jakob about anything, not now that she felt locked up and painful. She _really_ needed to pee.

“I am thinking,” he said, his palm gently resting on her shoulder, “about your house.”

“What about it?”

She hated hospitals. She hated waiting rooms that were grey in tone. She hated lateness, and she hated check-in desks, and she hated pamphlets that told her to quit smoking even though she wasn't a smoker to begin with. She especially hated not being allowed to go to the bathroom.

“There is,” Jakob shook his palm on her shoulder, “a river nearby.”

With that, she stilled, too angry to respond or even to blink.

“I am also thinking about waterfalls.”

“ _Jakob._ ”

“Drip, drop.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Drip...drop....”

By the time they were called back, she thought she might walk as if she had a limp. When the nurse who took her vitals instructed her to lie down on the examination table as he left the room, she grimaced. How could she get up onto a table? She didn’t want to bend down or flex any of her muscles. If she bent down, she swore she would piss herself, and then, she would have to tell the nurse that she’d pissed herself, and, oh, Jakob was here too. As if not being able to have sex with her boyfriend wasn’t enough, she would now wet herself in front of him right before they both learned of the due date for their baby. How elegant.

“Jakob,” she said, standing alongside the table while Jakob sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair nearby, “I can’t do this.”

And he looked up at her and reached out for her arm, touching her gently, softness in his eyes, her comforter.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” he said, voice quiet. “It’s going to be okay, Jean. I am here for whatever you need.”

“No,” she said, shaking his arm off of hers, “I have to pee, and I can’t get up onto the table because of it. I swear, if the sonographer touches my stomach too hard, I’ll wet myself.”

“Oh!” He laughed. “Everyone in hospitals pees.”

Furrowing her brow, she wasn’t sure whether to feel comforted or chastised, but she chose comforted in the end, then winced as she tried to sit back onto the table. Of course, it was raised to a normal person’s proper height, and she just so happened to be very small. 

“Hold on,” he said as he stood, then crouched down alongside her and picked her up bridal-style.

At first, she laughed, but then, she thought, _what if my bladder just released?_ And she looked down at her leggings - she wasn’t about to get ultrasound goop on her good silk, but then again, none of her silk trousers fit anymore, and in order to hide what was starting to look like some sudden weight-gain, she’d been wearing flowy dresses and loose cardigans exclusively - but couldn’t see a wet spot given that they were black, so she mentally cursed, wondered if his arm would come away smelling like a retirement home. Though she feared she’d peed on him, he still set her down gently atop the examination table, tugged down her bunching-up tee shirt, tickled her arm for good measure.

“There,” he said, then pulled his chair over so that he could sit alongside her and see the sonogram’s screen as well, his muscles bulging from the effort. “All better.”

So, now she was turned on _and_ bloated with urine. She wanted to go to the nearest bathroom and then leave this hospital as quickly as she could.

When the ultrasound technician came in and started making small talk, confirming Jean’s identity and asking who Jakob was, Jean looked at the little brunette woman and wished she would stop talking forever. Jean had googled in advance: this procedure would only take about twenty minutes, so if the technician _could please hurry up,_ then she was only twenty minutes or fewer away from _finally_ releasing her bladder. And now, the technician was powering up all of the equipment - they could have saved a few minutes had the equipment been _on already_ \- and talking about how happy it made her when older couples came in for their first scan, _how charming!_ Jakob smiled in the same way he had when Remi showed up out of the blue, and Jean glanced at the wall-clock and wondered how long this woman could possibly stretch the given twenty minutes.

After this appointment, she and Jakob would go to see her doctor with the results, and then, they could head home and not think about anything medical. Though she’d worked in clinical practice before, she didn’t understand how people could spend every workday in a hospital setting, how that kind of environment didn’t slowly drive them mad. And this bubbly ultrasound technician, she was _far_ too chipper to be a hospital employee, and when she spurted probe goop onto Jean’s exposed belly, Jean winced, for it was _cold,_ and had she wet herself this time? She leaned back on the table, tried to sense any muscle movements, but it seemed as if she was in the clear. Later, she would have to make a joke to Jakob about how she’d seen more elegant spurts in cumshot form, or maybe, actually, that was a bad idea.

“First thing’s first,” the woman said as she stuck the wand to Jean’s belly, moved it through the gel while she watched the screen above them all, “we’re going to find a heartbeat.”

And then, Jean stilled, her gaze stuck on the screen, haphazard black-and-white lines, something formless. What if there wasn’t a heartbeat? When she looked up what happened during a dating ultrasound - she couldn’t remember having one while she was pregnant with Otis - she saw that this ultrasound would confirm whether or not the fetus had implanted in a proper place. What if it hadn’t? In all of her discomfort, taking the afternoon off and asking Jakob for a ride and thinking about what her doctor would say and drinking too much water, she’d overlooked that she was scared.

“There we go,” the technician said. “Nice and strong.”

This part, she remembered it all too well, the too-fast heartbeat, almost inhuman, the way hers was when she ran up stairs, a heartbeat that she knew for certain wasn’t her own because she could feel how much slower hers was than this one. Jakob reached out for her hand resting on the examination table, threaded his fingers between hers. 

“I’ve got to take a couple recordings,” the technician said. “We’ll wait here for a moment before we get a better picture of the little guy.”

Jean raised her eyebrows.

“A picture?”

“Yes,” the girl said as she operated the machine in ways Jean couldn’t understand. “I have to measure the baby’s size to estimate its gestational age.”

“Oh,” Jean gave. “I thought you meant a real picture, like the one at twenty weeks.”

“No, it’s pretty real!” the technician said, laughing. “It’s not as clear as the scan you’re thinking of, but it’s fairly clear. You can take home a picture or two, if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Jean said, her nervousness confounding. 

When her doctor booked her this appointment, she’d assumed that they would see a strange, nonsensical blob on a screen, just some inconsequential black-and-white nothingness. She hadn’t prepared herself to look at the form of a baby on the screen. Suddenly, everything felt more real, as if until now she’d been only half-awake.

“Do you mind if I record the sound?” Jakob asked, using his free hand to reach into his pocket and take out his cell phone.

“Not at all,” the technician said, and when Jakob pressed the home button on the cracked screen of his phone, Jean noticed that his lock screen background was the same as hers, their picture together at the French restaurant last weekend. She hadn’t realized he’d changed it.

And then, the technician searched for a good angle of the baby - Jakob said _my daughter has Instagram and is always going on about angles,_ and the technician even laughed - and the whole time, Jean felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if her life would begin and end in this greyscale of a room, lying on a table she couldn’t get onto herself and feeling as if she would lose the contents of her bladder given one good jostle. And Jakob squeezed her hand as he put his cell phone away, and when she looked at him, she saw that same emotion on his face, that strange fear and overwhelm. She could relax, then, for she wasn’t alone.

“Here we go!” the technician said. “Glamour shot.”

On the screen, Jean could see the clear, obvious outline of a baby, the strange shape of her own uterus, black-and-white lines creating a near-universal image. She was twelve weeks along, and this was what the baby looked like. Looking up at the screen, she stared blankly, for though she’d spent weeks upon weeks being sick immediately after waking up, though her clothes had recently stopped fitting and though she knew that they would tell their children about the pregnancy so soon, she hadn’t felt as if the thing growing inside of her was real until then, until she faced its existence on this screen and heard _here we go, glamor shot._

“That’s crazy,” she said absentmindedly.

Jakob squeezed her hand, and the technician laughed, said, “Yeah, it is!”

“No, really,” Jean said, trying to shake off the surprise. “I wasn’t expecting this to be so...in-depth.”

“Oh, it really isn’t,” the technician said as she took more pictures, clicked more keys, made more measurements. “Just a head-to-rump length and some neck measurements. Checking up on your uterus and whatnot. No gender or anything today, none of the big things.”

Though Jean wanted to counter and say that the image on the screen right now was, in fact, a _big thing,_ something as big as a lemon-sized entity living in one of her organs, she felt Jakob rub his thumb along her knuckles and refrained. 

“Twelve weeks is looking pretty accurate,” the technician said once she stopped clicking around. “Measurements are good, ovaries and uterus too. Would you like a printed picture?”

Thankfully, Jakob had listened while Jean stared at the screen instead, so Jakob managed, “Yes, please. Two, if that would be alright.”

And then, the technician handed Jean a little pile of paper towels with which to wipe up, and after so much waiting, she could finally go to the bathroom, but even though the machine had been turned off, even though the technician had left, Jean kept looking back at the screen as if it held secrets she desperately wanted to know. Gently, Jakob took one of the paper towels from Jean’s hands, reached down to start mopping up the gel, and as she watched him clean her up, as he met her gaze and smiled softly, she saw how red his eyes were and realized that he’d been crying.

“Are you alright?” she asked, trying to sit up, trying to meet him where he was. 

“I am,” he said, dabbing away at her stomach. “Are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Are you happy?”

She held her breath for a moment, the question blindsiding her, and though she could name so many more obvious feelings - overwhelm, nervousness, the indescribable urge to race out of here and find the nearest bathroom - she knew the answer with ease.

“Yes,” she said, nodding to him.

He smiled, said, “I am too.”

* * *

With Halloween falling on Thursday that week, Moordale was hosting a Halloween dance on Saturday, and Otis wanted to take the car. 

“And also,” Otis asked on Thursday after she gave him permission, “Ola and her girlfriend wanted a ride too, if that’s alright.”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Jean gave. They were both sitting on the couch, the next _Lord of the Rings_ installment in the DVD player. She still thought Legolas was cute. “But no driving drunk, and I don’t want there to be any smoking or _vaping_ in the car.”

“Promise we won’t,” Otis said, but his response felt chipped and awkward; there was something he was holding back.

Trying to prompt him, Jean asked, “Will anyone else be joining you?”

“No,” Otis gave, “just me, Eric, Ola, and Lily.”

“Make sure you know their curfews.”

“I will!”

The silence between them was awkward and forced, but finally, Otis said, “Would you like me to drop you off at the Nymans’ when I pick Ola up?”

And that was why she was in the car with a Ghostbuster, an alien princess that Jean didn’t quite understand, and Eric wearing a low-cut tiger tuxedo that she wasn’t sure was a costume at all, all of them driving to the Nymans’ house for a tradeoff, Ola in exchange for Jean while Alma went to a friend's Halloween party. 

“You know,” the alien princess - Lily, the girl Otis tried to have sex with, small towns were too small - said, “it’s kind of strange that you’re driving your Mum to a dick appointment.”

While Otis looked prepared to drive the station wagon off of a cliff, Eric howled with laughter, and Jean furrowed her brow, asked, “What did you just say?”

“Dick appointment,” Lily gave. Her hair was in three buns all across the top of her head, and she’d contoured her face with hot pink makeup. At least half of her outfit was covered in tentacles. “When you have a set time and place for-”

“Lily, we all know what an appointment is,” Otis spat out, speaking so quickly that the sentence became _Lilyweallknowwhatanappointmentis._

When Jean called Jakob and invited herself over while the kids would be out, he mentioned her sourdough starter, asked if he could teach her how to bake bread, so she held the glass-jarred starter on her lap, a cheesecloth tightened with a rubber band held over top. In an attempt to be festive, she'd put on a long black dress that she otherwise would’ve worn with a belt, plus a chunky orange cardigan a size too big, for if she’d worn anything tighter, she would have looked pregnant. Though she knew that many people started showing earlier with second babies, she hadn’t expected to be _this_ big, especially because her clothes had still fit last weekend. Maybe there was some kind of swelling or water retention, she hadn’t the slightest idea, but what had previously looked like mild weight gain was now clearly something else. She wondered if Jakob had noticed when he undressed her before, wondered why she hadn’t noticed herself.

“So, Jean,” Eric said, leaning between the front seats of the car, palms by Otis’ and Jean’s shoulders, “you haven’t told me how your date went.”

She laughed, asked, “With the dress?”

“Of course I mean with the dress!”

“Do you want to see a picture?”

“That is not even a _question._ ”

Taking her phone out of her purse, she turned the device on, handed it to Eric, and he smiled.

“ _Perfect_ choice,” Eric said, nodding in approval as if he hadn’t picked her outfit; then, he pointed to Jakob on the screen and said, “And _so_ handsome.”

“Can we please,” Otis said, strained, “keep quiet. I don’t like driving.”

He really didn’t; he was almost inconceivably bad at parking, and when he went up hills, he tended to stall. More than once, they’d pulled over on the side of the road so that they could switch drivers before a hill, and then, once they reached flat ground again, they switched back. Eric stuck his tongue out at Otis, then kept talking.

“And now,” Eric said, “you’re baking bread.”

“Yes,” Jean said, holding up her sourdough starter. “I’m not entirely sure how I haven’t killed this yet.”

“Isn’t it just, like, bacteria and flour and stuff?”

“I think so.”

“So like, bread corpse.”

“There’s no bread in it.”

“Flour corpse, then.”

“I guess?”

And then, they were pulling up to the Nymans’, and Jean held her breath as Otis switched gears and finally managed to stop right before he bumped into one of the raised planters in Jakob’s garden. He sighed out a breath he’d probably been holding since putting the key into the ignition, then asked, “Mum, would you mind telling Ola that we’re here?”

So, that was her signal to leave. Gathering up her purse and starter, she opened up the car door, bid them all a goodbye, and went over to ring the bell in front of the Nymans’ home. Jakob quickly came to the door, opening it with a smile, then aggressively called up to Ola in Swedish. She barked back _shut up_ from upstairs, then came running down in platform boots and little pink shorts, her costume similar enough that it seemed to match Lily’s. Instead of tentacles, Ola wore hot pink suspenders and a yellow tank top, a pair of round goggles resting atop her head and her makeup done up all bright.

“You look fabulous,” Jean said as Ola came down and waved hello with a smile.

“Thanks,” Ola said. “Love the sweater. So seasonal.”

Then, she poked her father’s arm, held her finger there as she said, “There’s a fire extinguisher next to the woodstove, and if you have to use it, then I absolutely require that you call me, and if you don’t call me, then I get all of your tips for a week.”

She patted him twice, then headed out to the station wagon, calling _see you later, Jean_ as she went. Once Ola was in the car, Otis jaggedly backed up and turned to head out of the driveway while Jakob shielded his eyes from the sun and watched.

“Your son is not a very good driver,” Jakob said. “I can teach him how to drive better.”

Her eyes bugged in the doorway, but she tried to hide her true feelings, managed, “Yeah, sure. Maybe.”

Inviting her in, he reached out for the starter, then brought it into the kitchen while she shut the front door behind her and toed off her shoes. Though the sun was still out, though she didn’t need a coat yet, she found that her toes were growing cold every time she ventured out in her wedges, and she looked down at them in Jakob’s shoe tray, feeling remorse. She really didn’t want to switch to boots just yet.

“Have you been feeding it?” Jakob asked as he leaned down to counter-level, inspected her starter.

“Yes, every time you tell me to,” she said, heading over to join him in the kitchen.

On Tuesday night, the day of the ultrasound, she called him because she wanted to talk about it all but couldn’t talk about it with anyone else, and since then, they’d started talking every night right after the kids went to bed, sometimes falling asleep on the line. Though she hadn’t actively worried about such a thing, she’d been relieved to listen to his joyful musings, his excitement about this baby, for her excitement felt sacred alone but grew even more sacred when she had someone special to share it with. Apparently, he liked knitting baby blankets, had been making almost one per year when his oldest brother’s family started to grow, and now, Arvid and his wife Ana had a whole collection of little blankets, some of the children having brought theirs with them to university as a comfort item. Though she never asked how many children Arvid and Ana had, she estimated somewhere around ten, and more likely than not, all of them would come to Christmas, a family of twelve. Did the older children have spouses, maybe even children of their own? If some of the children had already started going to university, then maybe others had graduated. But he interrupted her thoughts when he asked if she wanted a boy or a girl, and she lay in bed stunned by the question, for she hadn’t wondered about that at all.

“I don’t really know,” she said on that night, curled up in bed, her phone on speaker and resting on the pillow next to her. “I haven’t thought about it. Have you?”

“I have, a little,” he gave, “but I have no preference.”

“I don’t think I have one either.”

“At the next ultrasound, would you like to find out?”

“Yes, absolutely,” she said even though until then she hadn’t had such conviction. “Not to be prescriptive, but I think I’ll prefer knowing.”

“And you don’t care for boy or girl colors, then,” he said, and she remembered that, yes, they’d just been talking about blankets, knit blankets, handknit blankets from this baby’s father. She felt as if her heart might burst.

“No, not at all,” she gave. “When Otis was a baby, everyone thought he was a girl because I put him in colorful clothes. Most of the time, I didn’t even correct them.”

And each afternoon, he would text her about feeding her sourdough starter, and each afternoon, she would feed the sourdough starter, then tell him that she’d done so during their phone call that evening. It had been comforting, even if in a bizarre way, that he put such great effort into keeping even something as inconsequential as his never-baking girlfriend’s starter alive. 

“Good, good,” he said, standing up straight, his unexplained inspection of her jar complete. “My recipe makes two loaves, but Ola requested cinnamon buns also.”

“Can your oven handle this much?” she asked, glancing over at it. “Mine definitely couldn’t.”

“The bread will not bake tonight,” he said, as if that were obvious. “It needs to rise.”

“Overnight?”

“I’ll write down instructions and send you home with a loaf.”

“And cinnamon rolls too?”

And she pouted at that, then laughed as he reached for her, his hands on her hips, and leaned down to kiss her, she was so much shorter without her wedges, her dress pooling on the ground between them, and she felt soft and comfortable and finally no longer nauseous, and the workweek was over, the kids out for the evening, and they were going to bake bread together. They were going to make cinnamon buns. Smiling, she kissed him again, palms on his chest, and she didn’t feel as if they should be heading upstairs, hiding from the kids, putting in a movie to drown out whatever they were thinking, tensely making dinner and hoping the other wouldn’t bring up a controversial topic. No, they were going to spend the whole evening making bread but never even baking it, and she relaxed at the thought of it, thankful that she had this time, thankful that she had him to spend it with.

“So,” he said when she pulled back, a little flustered in a way that made her giggle. He stood still for a minute, then remembered what he meant to say and went into the cabinets for bread flour. “I don’t know the word for this.”

She tapped her nails on the kitchen counter, offered, “Flour?”

“No, no, no,” he said, then laughed a bit forcibly, adding, “I meant the process. The step.”

“What step?”

“We add water and flour, then mix.”

“Is that a step at all?”

“Yes, but I don’t know the word for it.”

“Oh,” she gave. “Huh. Me neither.”

She could tell that he wasn’t surprised.

“It is four parts flour to one part water,” he said, looking into more cabinets in search of a mixing bowl. 

The Nyman kitchen seemed as if it was organized based on either last use or what location corresponded to an arbitrary coding system Jakob had made and since forgotten. Next to the wineglasses, he kept the spatulas, and he’d wedged the food scale between a dutch oven and a pie plate. 

“Start with water,” he said, leaving the bowl and scale for her. “750 milligrams.”

And she stood in front of the bowl and scale, watching him as he took out his own starter from behind his toaster - she wasn’t sure if that was a warm place proper for yeast growth or if he’d put it there and then forgotten where it was - and he had all of the bakery tools, the big plastic vats with red-print measurements on the side, wooden spoons and cocottes, but he wasn’t really working on anything. Then, he looked at her, furrowed his brow.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Then, she looked down at the bowl and realized what he’d meant.

“ _Oh,_ ” she said, “you want _me_ to fill the bowl with water.”

“I can do it,” he said, a little too open-minded, “if you would like.”

“No, no,” she gave, then turned the scale on, zeroed it. “That’s fine.”

While Jean mixed flour and water, she watched as Jakob searched for and finally found his nice red KitchenAid in one of the closets, then dusted the thing off and set it on the counter, ready to start making the cinnamon rolls. Though he cracked a Barefoot Contessa cookbook after bringing out the butter to soften, he went without a recipe as he creamed together butter and sugar, as he added in flour and a scoop taken from his own sourdough starter and let the mixer go. She wanted to question him about it, ask if baking wasn’t as precise as she’d heard it to be, but she refrained, not wanting to interrupt his focus.

“Now,” he said after switching out the mixer’s paddle for a hook-shaped attachment that looked to Jean like something she would advise her more daring patients about, “we cover the flour for one hour.”

“An hour?” she asked, surprised. “Will it have risen after that?”

“No,” he said. “We haven’t added any yeast yet.”

“So why do we do this part?”

“The flour and water are being introduced.”

Though she had absolutely no doubt that he could explain every last bit of this process in perfect Swedish, that certainly didn’t help when she knew nothing about baking or Swedish.

“It’s fine,” he brushed off. “Good for the flour.”

“Okay,” Jean said, nodding. “Great.”

The cinnamon roll dough had all stuck to that strange hook, so Jakob turned the mixer off, removed the dough from the hook and left the dough in the mixer’s bowl, then covered both with lids from various pots and pans, whatever would for the most part fit.

“And now,” he said, “we wait!”

* * *

“I found some things you might like.”

He had a stack of printouts in his desk drawer; he pulled them out and left the drawer open as he joined her on the couch. Furrowing her brow, she looked down at the big stack of printer paper - usually she received links in emails - and wondered if he was offering her more information on sourdough starter, trying to wean her of her text message reminders.

“You were nervous,” he said, handing the stack to her, “so I looked up things on the internet.”

And on the top of the first page, there was an article asking _what is a gentle or family-centered cesarean?_ She flipped through, found more articles, something from Harvard Medical School, everything from Buzzfeed to WebMD to blogs included in this stack. Reading a line off of one page, she saw a doctor comment that there was nothing radical about this concept even though it was the first improvement to the procedure that he’d seen in decades.

On Wednesday, the day after her doctor scheduled a cesarean for April, Jean finally managed the courage to talk about it.

“I’m nervous about the operation,” she’d said, curled up for the evening, her phone screen telling her that the call she’d been on with Jakob was over an hour long.

“Did you have one when your son was born?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “I think his birth was as different from a cesarean as one could be.”

She’d opted for a birthing center instead of a hospital because enough of her education had been in the social sciences for her to be uncomfortable with hospital births but enough of her education had also been in the biological sciences for her to want a number of medical professionals present. While her husband ran late, she’d had a midwife, a doula, and four nurses to keep her company, and for years after that, she still associated the scent of lavender candles, similar to the ones burning in the room she’d been given, with labor contractions. Though she started to wonder why she’d made such a choice six hours into her labor, she’d foregone anesthesia altogether.

“It’s such an unknown,” she said, wishing she was looking at him rather than at her phone on speaker. “I know only enough about it to be scared.”

“Such as?”

And she sighed, wished he’d known her ultimate law of the universe that she stood by no matter how often it was proven false: that voicing your fears made them happen by default.

“Well,” she said, trying to think clinically, trying not to imagine it happening to her, “the baby gets whisked off immediately, you’re strapped down to a table with your innards outside of your body, and it’s four days of recovery in the hospital.”

“Really?” he said, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t realize it was that long.”

“They put a catheter in you, too.”

“For blood?”

“No, in your…”

“Oh.” She could almost hear him wince. “Okay. Good.”

“And then there’s all the complications afterwards,” she said, remembering her long-ago days in mothers’ groups giving talks on postpartum sexual health and, because she’d been in a first-wave movement as a result of having a freezer full of leftovers, milk-banking. “There’s bleeding and a high infection risk, as one would expect, and it can delay breastfeeding significantly and lead to problems with milk supply.”

So she couldn’t have sex with her boyfriend but _could_ talk to him about milk supply. Imagining what Catherine would think of that, she felt let-down given that Catherine would unfortunately call it _normal._

“But plenty of people give birth this way,” Jakob said. “It must not be _so_ bad.”

“Would you like to take my place, then?”

He laughed, said, “I meant that it must be okay in the end. The milk supply and whatnot.”

“Yes, but what if it doesn’t?”

“We’ll make it work, Jean,” he reassured her. “I know we will.”

And now, he had a whole stack of reading for her about this _gentle cesarean,_ even the name of which felt reassuring. She imagined him sitting in front of his computer, squinting at the screen and deciding whether or not to print another article, wondering if this was the one that would ease all of her fears. Figuring that these articles were about the operation itself, she doubted he found any comfort or security in them; he’d done this purely for her benefit.

“Thanks,” she said, not sure what else to say even though just _thanks_ felt inadequate. “I really appreciate this.”

“It’s simple,” he said, then helped her flip back to the first page, a top-ten type of list from Lamaze International. “The drape is lower so you can see the baby. They put monitors on the sides of your chest, not the top.”

She tried to skim the list, and though she couldn’t find anything comforting about the procedure itself, she could see that some hospitals would let parents start skin-to-skin in the operating room, something she’d never believed to be possible. Could it really be so simple? There was a picture halfway down the page, gown open, electrodes on the mother’s sides, a wailing newborn held between the mother and the drape. Though she wouldn’t be able to spend less time in the hospital, though this was still an operation, she felt a pull in her heart, a deep thankfulness. If she talked with her doctor, if she found a hospital willing to partake, then she would have the same immediate skin-to-skin that she’d had with Otis. She wouldn’t have to sacrifice that part.

“That’s really good,” she said, nodding to him on the couch. “Thank you. We’ll have to ask about it at my next appointment.”

“Okay,” he said, then squeezed her arm. “Good.”

And his timer went off, the rise for the cinnamon rolls complete and the bread flour done moistening, and they were back in the kitchen, Jakob taking out her starter and measuring out a portion on the food scale. 

“Now,” he said as he dumped the starter into the bowl of hydrated flour, “you mix like a crab.”

He held his hands up and made little pinching motions with his thumb and index finger.

“You don’t want to pop the bubbles,” he said, then leaned against the kitchen counter and stared at her, not doing anything. 

She stood awkwardly alongside him, the silence between them uncomfortable, and she clasped her hands together, glanced out the window, wondered when the sun would set.

“You’re doing this part too,” he added.

“ _Oh,_ ” she said, nodding and then doing the pinching motion with her own fingers. “Right. Obviously.”

Laughing while she rolled up the sleeves of her cardigan, he said, “We’re making bread.”

“ _I’m_ making bread.” She pinched at the dough, absolutely sure that she was doing this wrong. “You’re neglecting some cinnamon buns.”

He smiled and shook his head at her while she worked, and once the starter and flour had mixed, he poured in salt and more water, making the dough more elastic, like that slime putty that she saw at so many therapist conferences. Stretching the dough out in the bowl, she started to understand why some people thought this was fun.

“The next part,” he said while she pulled at the dough, “is to beat the dough up a little.”

Furrowing her brow, she asked, “What do you mean?”

He reached in, scooped her dough out of the bowl, and then slapped it down hard on the counter, making the soap dispenser by the sink shake.

“You throw it,” he said while demonstrating the next part, “and fold it over.”

Repeating the action, he slammed the dough down and folded it in half, then went through the motion again. 

“Let me show you,” he said, coming behind her and holding her hands in his.

He brought her hands down over top of the dough, then guided her as they together lifted the dough up and slammed it down on the counter.

“I think I understand how this works,” she said, glancing back at him.

“I don’t think you do,” he said, squeezing one of her hands.

When her arms grew tired - about five throws in - he took over this step, and she sat on one of the other counters and watched as he worked, the thick muscles in his arms bulging, the actions so practiced. And he was smiling, an involuntary little smile, joy bubbling up over his lips. He liked doing this; she wondered if he appreciated being able to share such things.

“Have you always known how to cook?” she asked while he kneaded.

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Yes, but also no.”

“When did you really start to learn, then?”

“As a boy, my parents taught me things like this,” he said, then slapped, then folded, “but my wife did most of the cooking. She was a very good cook, and when she was sick, I felt as if that part of my life disappeared. The girls ate too much macaroni and cheese.”

Despite her degrees, she didn’t know how to talk to him about his wife, how to be present to his grief without selfishly feeling upstaged. For the most part, Jean knew that he never compared her to his wife, but she wasn’t sure who she could be to him given that the great love of his life had died. She wanted to learn about his wife and honor her memory but felt as if she could only ever tarnish that memory.

“When my wife died, I spent a long time being depressed,” he said, then slapped, then folded, “and I found that I could reach her, in a way, if I went through all of her recipe cards. Her notes weren’t very good, and I didn’t know most of the skills, but once I finally finished one of her recipes, I could taste the food and feel as if she was with me again.”

Years ago, Jean had read a book on such a subject, on how reconnecting with food through gardening, learning about the origins of what was on one’s plate, and taking part in the rituals surrounding cooking could alleviate depression, but listening to him, she felt as if that reading didn’t matter in comparison to this story, data becoming meaningless when robbed of its context. She could picture him tasting a dish and remembering years beforehand when his wife had asked him to taste the same thing, did it need more salt? No, no, it’s very good, it doesn’t need more salt at all.

“But I think that feeling would’ve gone away after a while,” he added, then slapped, then folded. “It wasn’t selfish, but it was all for me. What made me keep going was that my daughters started asking for things, and I could make them a lunchbox. Their mother used to do that because she was the better cook, and back then, I left for work very early and didn’t have time. When I started cooking, they started having fancy little lunches, and they would be so excited for dinner, especially if I made dessert for afterward. Though I had started in order to connect with my wife, I could feel that she was asking me to connect with them instead, so I kept going.”

He stopped slapping and folding, then looked to her, asked, “Can you turn the oven on?”

Stunned with the change in topic, she asked, “The oven?”

“You’re next to the dial,” he said, which she was, her right knee almost bumping against it. “There is a setting called _proof._ ”

“But we’re not baking this yet.” 

She turned the dial to his desired setting. 

“Not yet,” he said, then put the dough back into the original big bowl. “This makes the oven only a bit warmer than the room. Good for rising.”

Covering the bowl with a dishtowel, he set the bowl into the oven and closed the door, then came over to her, his palms resting on either side of her legs on the counter. Though she would never admit it to him, it turned her on when they were at equal height like this, her sitting while he stood, their faces level. She stretched out her legs, interlocked her ankles behind him, tried to pull him closer.

He laughed, said, “You like this.”

Pressing her palms against his chest, warm and muscular, she smirked, said, “Maybe.”

“You like this a lot,” and then, he kissed her, one of his arms wrapping around her back, bracing her.

And only a year ago, she would’ve imagined this scene - her on a counter, him teaching her to bake bread, Otis taking the station wagon for an evening and committing to driving friends home - and thought, _that will never happen,_ partially with disdain for such things and partially with shame from how she knew she wasn’t capable. Instead, she told herself that she wasn't the type to go on dates, that marriage wasn’t for her, that she liked sex and just sex, and for a while, that wasperfect. For a while, _just sex_ was cathartic because she could close the door on men. No matter what she felt, she could push someone away and come out of the not-relationship on top, the successful one, the one who got what she wanted. And she communicated that precisely to each of her conquests, telling them that this was never going to be a relationship, she wasn’t looking for that right now, this would be sex and sex alone, and for the most part, they understood. She would watch romantic comedies and not picture herself as the lead. She would read novels about Victorian romance and yearn but not for that life, yearn instead for those feelings, ones she knew she could still have without a man. She could distance herself, and for the most part, she distanced herself healthfully. Back then, Catherine had said _good for you_ and figured that a bunch of one-night stands was a fine idea, especially given that Jean wasn’t sure she ever wanted a marriage or long-term partnership anyway.

But there had been an unhealed part of her, a part that relished in these one-night stands, a part that kept her from being intimate with sexual partners as well as from having close friends. A part of her was scared that she’d feel the same pain she’d felt when Remi walked out, when Remi nearly gave her gonorrhea while she was pregnant, when Remi called her dramatic and unfocused and annoying and uncouth, and this time - she was absolutely sure of this - that grief would crush her so greatly that it would kill her. Though she told her patients that their emotions could never physically hurt them, she still felt as if she were some kind of exception, the one person that no therapist wants their patients to hear about, the one who makes those with anxiety disorders feel uncomfortably valid in their fears. She didn’t need to challenge that part of herself until she met Jakob. Or, rather, she only challenged that part of herself when Jakob told her that he couldn’t be with her, not even for a meal together. _I’m not sure if I could get up,_ it echoed in her mind long after the initial sting of _you’re not ready for the kind of intimacy I’m looking for_ wore off. She was afraid to love, so she chose to hardly love at all, and while she only hurt herself with that choice, she could make it freely, but once it hurt him, she couldn’t do it anymore. Only once she hurt others was she able to realize that she needed to heal that part of herself, for both herself and others.

And now, she was making out with her boyfriend in his kitchen while they proofed bread dough and neglected half-made cinnamon rolls. He had a lasagna in the fridge, ready to heat up for dinner, and apparently, he’d made homemade cheese and everything, the oregano coming from his garden. Though Otis would come by the house around eleven anyway, she had spare underwear, pajamas, and a toothbrush in her handbag, perks of carrying a big bag at all times. And she could relax knowing that they would only have sex when she was ready, that she didn’t owe him anything, that she could stay over tonight simply because she wanted to sleep next to him and never wonder what was on his mind as a result. Though the past few weeks had been a whirlwind, she could feel things slowing down, her nausea starting to dissipate, Jakob touching her as if he loved her. Things were okay. Everything was going to be okay.

He rolled out the pastry dough afterward, tasked her with sprinkling brown sugar and cinnamon on top. When they rolled up the dough, he took one end while she took the other, and he microwaved the parts that they trimmed off on the sides, having that as a snack. The cinnamon rolls, all round and perfect and spaced out in a baking dish, also needed to proof for a while, and the sun was setting, and the kids were out having holiday fun, and she and Jakob didn’t need to do anything other than spend time together. 

On the couch, she leaned against him, genuinely cuddled. She was big enough that the gesture was starting to feel awkward, but she didn’t care, not when she could curl up with him and exhale, her heart rate slowing, the stresses of the past few weeks starting to fade away.

“I love this time of day,” he said, staring out the wide windows of his home and watching as the sky turned purple then orange, so bright that she would need sunglasses, the solar glare blocked by the trees.

He said that about mornings too, and when it rained on nights that he stayed over in her home. He said that about a lot of times of the day.

“Me too,” she said.

Bunching up the fabric of his shirt in her palm, she looked out and watched the sun set.

* * *

“Here.”

He poked a line on the page of the library book in front of them. While she sat at home watching Love Island - Billy did, in fact, take his shirt off, and she may or may not have paused on that part for a while - he went to the library and robbed the section for expectant parents. She imagined Jakob standing in front of her vagina class and teaching everyone about hymens.

“The size of a lemon,” he said. “Wow.”

And for some reason, that _wow_ was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, so she started laughing, and he furrowed his brow at her.

“I have lemons in the fridge,” he said, tossing his thumb back in the direction of the kitchen, “if you want to see.”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head and still laughing. “That’s just funny for some reason. Like a lemon is the craziest thing you’ve ever seen.”

“I meant the size,” he said, as if she’d meant for him to clarify. “That’s quite large.”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” she said, sitting next to him on the couch as they paged through a book that chronicled pregnancy week by week. “I can barely hide it anymore. Last time, I didn’t get this big this quickly.”

“Comes with the times,” he said, and sitting alongside him on the couch, she leaned her head on his shoulder, looked down at the book.

“Yes, but I thought I would be well beyond the first trimester before it started to look obvious,” she gave. “And now it’s like, one more month, but before then, everyone will know.”

He glanced down at her, asked, “What do you mean, one more month?”

“Sixteen weeks,” she shrugged off. “We’re at twelve right now. One more month.”

“Twelve weeks ends the first trimester.”

“No, it-”

And then, she did the mental math, and sixteen divided by four, twelve divided by four, he was _right_. She was beyond the first trimester. They hadn’t told the kids yet, and she was already beyond the first trimester.

“I can’t do maths,” she said, shocked. “I can’t do basic maths.”

He laughed, gave, “It’s okay.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“What do you mean, before?”

“When we talked about when we would tell the kids.”

And now, her head was off of his shoulder, and she turned toward him on the couch, the living room lights brightening them in the November darkness. She meant business.

“I said I wanted to wait until fourteen weeks,” she said, starting to talk with her hands, “because I wanted them to feel heard. But now, they’re not going to feel heard. It’s going to feel like a secret.”

“I thought you were being cautious,” he gave, unsure what else to say. “I thought, this is her decision.”

“Oh my god,” she said, then looked down at her lap, “I have to cover this up for two more weeks.”

“Jean-”

“I _can’t_ ,” she said, shrugging out of her sweater, tugging her dress tight, putting herself on display. “It’s obvious already. In two weeks, I’m going to be a whale.”

“The word whale, though they are beautiful creatures, is an insulting word to use to describe a pregnant woman, Jean.”

She stared at him incredulously, for he was both missing the point and saying something that she would have said to a client had they insulted themselves in such a way. He was beating her at some kind of unspoken game. 

“We could tell them earlier,” Jakob added, acting so casual. Why couldn’t he see that this was a crisis?

“No, we can’t tell them earlier,” Jean explained, talking slowly in hope that he would understand the gravity of the situation through her emphasis, “because your daughter still hates me.”

Jakob leaned his elbow against the top of the couch, shook his head.

“Alma doesn’t hate you,” he gave. “I think Ola likes you more than she likes me.”

“Alma _does_ hate me,” Jean said, nodding quickly. “I would know. I’ve been a teenage girl before.”

“How about you two hang out together next weekend?” 

She raised her eyebrows, _that’s a bad idea,_ so he softened and elaborated.

“She likes the art store,” he explained. “I don’t like the art store. There are too many pencils, and it smells like chalk. She would love for you to take her to the art store.”

Not believing in his plan, she asked, “Couldn’t Ola drive her to the art store?”

“Ola is her sister.”

“And?”

“Ola charges more than this Uber service does.”

“Oh,” she gave, the _only child_ in her coming out. “Right.”

“Take Alma to buy pencils,” he said, reaching out and rubbing her leg. “She will be so happy.”

And she sighed, for that was a better plan than any she’d thought of, and if Alma shirked her off, said _I can find what I’m looking for on my own_ and asked if Jean wouldn’t mind leaving and then picking her up in an hour, Jean could go elsewhere in the local shopping plaza and find some - and she winced at the words put together - maternity clothes. Then, they would tell the kids about the pregnancy the following week, and at least Alma would be indebted to her for a ride to the art store. 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Jakob insisted. “She has had a hard year.”

Her heart sinking, Jean knew it with horrible conviction: she was going to hurt this little girl so much.

“Why?” Jean asked, feeling selfish, feeling as if she needed to leave this house and never speak to this family again, feeling as if she were a bully.

“Her friends,” he said, wincing a little, “they’re not very good.”

“Do they do drugs?”

“No, no, not like that,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re not kind.”

Unfortunately, she could remember that all too well, the way that some girls felt unstoppable and endless at fourteen, how the girls with that much confidence used their confidence to hurt the ones who didn’t feel that they were worth anything. Alma had lost her mother, and now, she had friends who weren’t very nice, and she had to deal with puberty, the stresses of school, and grief all at once. Didn’t she deserve at least one good, kind friend?

“She’s very sensitive,” he said, trying to let the topic go, not wanting to talk about it. “She’s strong, but she’s very sensitive.”

“She’s sweet,” Jean said. _She’s sweet, and I’m going to ruin her with this._

“She is,” he said, then swiftly changed the subject. “Would you like me to start heating up dinner?”

Though she wanted to ask more about Alma, she knew he wouldn’t budge, so she said, “That would be nice.”

He rubbed her leg once more before he stood and headed into the kitchen, taking the proofing dough out of the oven and preheating, grabbing the lasagna from its spot in the fridge. Reaching out, she picked up the pregnancy book he’d left behind, the page still open to a long explanation of what _twelve weeks_ would feel like. Because she was right on the cusp of the second trimester, her early pregnancy symptoms should be starting to wane - they were - and she’d start feeling more like herself again. After all of the troublesome symptoms, the near-intolerable breast pain and the nausea that plagued her each day, she would start feeling better, and she wouldn’t have to keep this a secret anymore. _I have to stop taking new clients,_ she realized, then wondered why the thought hadn’t occurred to her earlier. She would take six months off, at minimum. She wondered if she still had her dreaded breast pump somewhere, unable to give it away because it was an open system. She wondered what it would be like for her to have a girl for the first time, or for Jakob to have a boy.

Putting the book down, she stood up, headed over to him while he put the lasagna into the heated oven.

“Want me to make you a snack?” he asked as he removed his quilted oven mitts. She’d never thought that quilted oven mitts could make an already attractive man even more attractive. “I made rosemary crackers on Thursday. I have parmesan.”

“That’s okay,” she said, then came over and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek against his chest, missing him. “I can wait.”

“You don’t need to wait.” 

He held her there, kissed the top of her head. For once, she loved being so much shorter than the man she was seeing, loved how big his arms felt around her. 

“How are we going to tell the kids?”

Sighing, he said, “We can all have dinner together. Talk afterward.”

“Here or at my house?”

“Here, I think,” he said, Alma being the unspoken reason why.

“Okay,” she agreed.

“I’ll make us dinner,” he said, “and afterward, before dessert, we can tell them.”

“What if it goes horribly?”

He brushed her hair back with his fingers.

“It will come as a surprise to them,” he gave. “It came as a surprise to us.”

“What if they’re angry?”

“The anger will leave over time.”

“How can we possibly know that?”

“Because they love us.” He brushed her hair behind her ears. “Because it’s something they can be happy about.”

“A sibling right before they leave for university might not be something to be happy about.”

“What if they’re excited about it, not angry?”

“Don’t do that,” she said, shaking her head against him. “I’m a therapist. I know that trick. You can’t fool me.”

“What if they’re _ecstatic?_ ” he continued. 

“They won’t be ecstatic. They’re teenagers.”

“They could take bets if it’s a boy or girl,” Jakob said, and she groaned against him, for it didn’t really _matter._ “No matter what they guess, I think Ola will win.”

She furrowed her brow, not sure what to make of that.

“They might be glad,” he mused, “that we will be stressed about something other than their A Levels.”

Sighing, she said, “Don’t remind me.”

“I think,” he said, using his most established tone, trying to convey that he’d thought a lot about this, “that if we can be happy about this, then they can too.”

And though she wanted to disagree with him, there was a horrible truth to what he’d said, how their post-vasectomy later-in-life after-a-breakup pregnancy had become something good. After the ultrasound, he’d hugged her in the hospital parking lot, his arms so tight around her, and for once, she felt as if she could melt into the embrace of another, as if she would always be safe with him. And what made that safety feel real was that she could imagine their lives going in a similar direction had she not continued the pregnancy, for she still would have made raspberry jam with his daughter, and he still would have baked her a birthday cake, and on the night of the kids’ Halloween dance at school, they still would’ve baked bread together, or maybe just had dinner, or maybe gone to Paris. But what would always be the same was that they would leave some big appointment, something emotional and overwhelming, and he would hug her in the parking lot, and she would know that she was safe with him. She would know that he would never hurt her on purpose and that all that kept him from loving her were her own fears. 

“They’ll be okay,” he reassured her, kissing her head again. “We all will be.”

The oven timer sounded, thank goodness. She was so hungry.

* * *

“Jean?”

He nudged her shoulder, trying to wake her up, and she sighed as she forced herself up, her back hurting from the awkward way she’d cuddled him on the couch, too tired to do much other than pull him closer.

“I think it’s time for bed,” he said, laughing a little beneath her, a vibration under his skin.

For dessert, they split a cinnamon roll. Jakob really liked cream cheese frosting. When she tasted what they’d baked together, tangy from the sourdough starter but sweet and spicy too, she wondered why she bothered buying coffee shop pastries when the ones he made were far better. As she closed her eyes again, she imagined them together in the morning, her wearing the little blue slip she’d brought, him in his sparse pajamas that weren’t even pajamas in the end, each eating a cinnamon bun at the breakfast table while sunlight poured in through the windows. It was November, and the days were growing shorter, but they would still be able to share a morning together, might even put on sweaters and head outside for breakfast simply because they could.

“Up, up, up,” he said, nudging her again. “My bed is much more comfortable.”

She’d never slept in his bed before. She’d purposefully never gone into his bedroom, for if she saw where he slept, if she saw pictures of his wife and daughters, if she could see where he kept his clothes, then she knew she would never be able to stay with him. Now, she wanted to see his toothbrush on the sink. She wanted to see a stick of deodorant on top of his dresser. She wanted a goodnight kiss.

Though she thought about asking him to carry her upstairs, she needed to change out of her clothes, so she forced herself up, her body protesting the whole time. Her handbag was next to her shoes by the door; she yawned as she picked it up, started heading upstairs. 

“I’m going to do the dishes quickly,” Jakob called up to her, “and text Ola to tell your son not to pick you up.”

From the staircase, she asked, “What time is it?”

“Just after ten.”

“Really?”

He laughed, gave, “You’ve had a long week.”

Though she hadn’t had a long week, she was too tired to say that, so she headed upstairs, stood in front of his bedroom door and hovered her palm over the handle. With one turn, she would be let in, and there would be his drawers, his closet, his nightstand full of receipts and spare change. She wondered if she should ask for an invitation. She wondered what color his sheets were. She wondered if he liked thicker or thinner pillows. At night, he always tended to run warm, kicking off the covers while she wrapped them tightly around her body. She wondered how long she could stay in the morning before it seemed proper for him to take her home. 

_You’re too tired for this nonsense,_ she thought, then forced the door open, turned the lights on, and his bedroom was softer than hers, all solid colors, no patterns. The walls were painted a deep blue, the carpet and bedspread grey, all dark wood furniture. Though the telltale receipts were still on one bedside table, he kept his bedroom cleaner than she’d expected, the dresser-drawers all pushed in, the closet door shut. On the farthest wall, he had a window seat that looked custom-built, his own addition to the house, and the window was wide and big, covered up by grey blackout curtains. He had a bathroom as well, one tucked away from the girls, one just for him. No pictures, no memorabilia, he kept those things downstairs, instead left books on the floor by a cornered armchair and a spare throw blanket on the padded window seat. Jean could tell that he kept this room simple and soft because it was a refuge, a place that relaxed whoever entered; she could tell that this was a kind of escape for him and, in an exhausted, ready-for-bed way, loved him for it.

Taking her slip out of her handbag, shimmying out of her underwear, she started to dress for bed, and she really did look pregnant, maybe not when she wore loose clothing but certainly when she undressed. She pulled the slip over her head, and though the garment was only fitted in the chest, that fitted portion went down too far, the top of her belly tight in a place where the garment hadn’t been tight before, and she sighed, half-defeated, _it’ll fit this time next year, Jean._ Though she felt comfortable with the changes in her body - her doctor had said that she must gain two stone during her pregnancy for her own health and the baby’s, and after eating Jakob’s cinnamon buns, she brimmed with excitement about gaining that weight - the thought of purchasing maternity clothes made her want to beat her head against a wall and surrender to wearing ill-fitting leggings until May. She could tolerate a slip not fitting, but if a slip not fitting meant that she needed to go to a store and find new pajamas, then smoke would come out of her ears. Momentarily, she thought about sleeping in this, pretending the top wasn’t too tight, trying to focus on how everything but that little span of stomach fit fine, but she tore the thing off, knew she would never sleep in something that felt wrong. She stuffed the slip back into her purse, then went over to the dresser, hovered her hands above one drawer. 

Would he mind? No, he absolutely wouldn’t, so she pulled the drawer open, and he owned so many tee shirts. He owned far too many tee shirts. How could someone own this many tee shirts? Piecing through them, she tried to determine what graphic was on each, which ones were for which purpose, what was acceptable to sleep in versus what was used when he changed the van’s oil. When she touched a shirt that felt as if it had been washed hundreds of times, soft with wear, she took that one out, heathered grey, a big wall of Swedish text on the front, an advertisement for beer or some kind of food product. She pulled the shirt over her head, and the bottom hem almost reached her knees. 

He had two bottles in his shower, one of shampoo and another of body wash. He used a bamboo toothbrush and toothpaste for sensitive teeth. When she opened the medicine cabinet, she found a mild face cream, lanolin balm for his hands, nail clippers, pain relievers, and liniment. She needed to borrow his toothpaste. Either he wanted to give her privacy, or he was taking a long time with the dishes. She spat, rinsed out her mouth, the tattoos on her wrists had begun to fade. Last week, she’d needed to cancel a touch-up appointment, for she hadn’t known if such a thing would be safe and felt too nervous to ask. 

When he came into the bedroom, she was leaving the bathroom, and he told her to make herself comfortable, he would be out in a minute, and he looked her up and down and smiled a little, then headed into the bathroom. He hummed while he washed up. Because the table on the left side of the bed was covered in receipts, she took the right side, her purse left on the floor. He liked firm pillows, thank goodness. As she pulled the covers up over her body, closed her eyes, she relaxed into his bed, and he was right, this was much more comfortable than the couch, and when she next woke up, her back wouldn’t hurt from the position. She was tired enough that not even having the lights on in the bedroom could keep her awake, and his bed was so comfortable, and she wanted to sink in and never get up.

By the time he turned the lights off and joined her, she couldn’t be bothered to say goodnight, didn’t want to keep herself from sleeping, so she kept still as he ever-so-gently climbed into bed, the courtesy lost given how loudly he would snore later. 

“Jean?” he whispered, trying not to wake her.

While he gave her a moment to respond, she kept silent, and she assumed he would settle in, let them both sleep, but she could feel that he wanted to say more, could feel the weight of his unspoken words. Should she reach for him? Now that she thought about it, she would like one last cuddle before bed, as ridiculous as that might sound. She liked being held by him.

“Thank you for tonight, Jean,” he whispered, and he softly kissed her head, not even really kissing her, just the little puffed-out ends of her hair. He didn’t want to wake her up, but he couldn’t go to sleep without saying goodnight first.

And she thought about reaching for him, about thanking him too, but she didn’t want him to know that she was awake. She didn’t want him to know that she’d heard him. She wanted that moment to be both his and hers but for different reasons. She wanted to keep that she’d heard a secret so that she could cherish it more.

Within minutes, he started snoring, but somehow, the sound didn’t keep her awake anymore.

* * *

She woke the same way she always did, but this time, she stood up quickly and found that this bedroom door wasn’t her own, that leaving her bedroom wouldn’t take her to the bathroom. No, this was Jakob’s bedroom, and he had his own private bathroom, thank goodness. And she raced into his bathroom, didn’t have time to shut the door before she vomited into his perfectly clean toilet. Of course, the morning sickness hadn’t come around yesterday, but today, the lemon in her uterus wanted to cause trouble. Leaning back against one of the bathroom walls, she thought, _of course this is happening now._

“Jean?”

He sounded sleepy and so concerned, and she closed her eyes, hating him for being good. No, not hating him, but she sometimes wished he would treat her poorly in one way and one way only so that she would have a good reason to be mad at him. Then, he would be the one apologizing, but instead, he got out of bed and came into the bathroom with her, crouched down alongside her, touched her arm while he looked at her with concern. Asshole.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his palm going to her forehead, and had she not felt sick, she would’ve laughed.

“Of course I’m alright,” she gave, pulling his palm from her forehead. “Happens every morning.”

“Oh,” he said, taking his hand back. “Right.”

She sighed, covering her face with her hands. She hated vomiting in front of others. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, sitting down alongside her. “Anything I can bring you?”

Usually, she took some of that tonic he gave her, then made a cup of tea, but she couldn’t do that now. In the end, she wanted him to hold her, so she dropped her hands down and leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and he held one of her hands, sat there with her on the bathroom floor. Would it have been better or worse to have spent the last month like this, holding his hand on a bathroom floor after she was sick? _It doesn’t matter,_ she told herself, _because it’s all in the past now. Soon enough, this will stop happening. Everything is going to change, and it will all be okay._

When the nausea started to return, nothing urgent but something that would bother her nonetheless, she asked, “Would you mind making me some tea?”

“Not at all,” he said, squeezing her hand before he sprung up and headed out of the bathroom, not bothering with a shirt or trousers. Never in her life would she have a cup of tea brewed faster for her. 

She flushed the toilet, then brushed her teeth, tried to get the taste of vomit out of her mouth. Even though she felt wide awake, she wanted to get back into bed, so she went over to her side, peeled back the covers, climbed in again, and though he was downstairs making the tea she’d specifically requested, she wished he would come back and join her right now, rub her back and say good morning to her, promise to make her breakfast in a little while. She wanted him to kiss her and say hello.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened, and Alma stood there in her pajamas, something urgent on her mind, totally awake. 

“Papa?” she asked, looking to the bathroom and then the bed. “Do you know where the-”

And Jean held her breath when Alma spotted her, the girl’s face fading, and though Jean had modestly covered herself already, she pulled the comforter up over her chest as if she’d been caught naked, not knowing how else to protect herself. The girl was silent as she stared at Jean, remorse coming across her features, and then, she was gone, the door closing gently behind her. When she heard Alma’s footsteps heading away from the door, Jean forced herself to breathe again, her cheeks reddening, her body aching with the awkwardness, the embarrassment. What did Alma think now? Had Jakob told her that Jean was staying over? How had the little party Alma had attended gone? When did the kids return last night? She had so many questions, and there were no answers, no simple ways to make your boyfriend’s fourteen-year-old daughter like you, and she knew that Alma might never like her. She knew that Alma might always be angry. She knew that Alma might hate her, and maybe even hate Jakob a little too.

When Jakob returned with her tea, she thought about telling him that Alma had come in but chose not to. 

“Thanks,” she said as he set the mug down on her nightstand.

“Wait until it cools.” He climbed back into bed with her. “No burning your tongue.”

And his arms were around her once again, and she closed her eyes and held him, the right way to spend a morning, her nausea still present but dissipating, her body adjusting to the new week. She could think of good things, the printouts about gentle cesareans and the stack of library books, how Jakob had faith that their children wouldn’t hate them forever. If she wanted to, she could detail every good part of the previous day, and she could explain in painstaking detail the psychological qualities of each of those things. But as she held him close, she thought not of him but instead of his daughter’s face, the look of shock, the remorse, the discomfort. No words exchanged. Jean should have said something, but what could she have said? Did the room smell like vomit? If she knocked on Alma’s door, came to offer an explanation, would the girl only hate her more?

“Let me know when you want breakfast,” Jakob said softly, pulling her closer.

She thought about sharing breakfast with his daughters and wondered if she would be able to eat at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a little note on my blog about setting inconsistencies [here](https://melforbes.tumblr.com/post/616487559365853184/hello-i-tried-mapping-out-a-comparison-of-what-we) and recommend taking a peek before starting this chapter!

As Jean had expected, Alma walked into the art store looking as if she would rather be seen with someone dressed as an insensitive mascot for an American university, but Jean was one step ahead of her. Jean had a plan.

“I want to start keeping a bullet journal,” Jean said as Alma headed toward the aisle for fine pencils and pens. “I’m not much of an artist, though. I was wondering if you had any advice.”

And Alma, of course, appeared indifferent as she looked at the wall of pencils and pens, as she took one down to use on the long and doodled-upon sheet of paper left for testing. 

“You know,” Alma said while she tried out a black pen, no, too thick, not good for what she meant to make, “bullet journaling began as a minimalist method of recording daily activities and goals. The journals you see on Pinterest are the antithesis of the original bullet journal, for they’re covered in time-consuming drawings and washi tape. They’re the opposite of what the creator intended.”

“Oh,” Jean gave, standing awkwardly in this pen aisle. Jakob had been right; this was far too many pens. She felt dizzy with the number of choices. “I just thought they looked pretty.”

Standing on tiptoe, Alma reached up to take out two felt-tipped pens in black and grey, then added a fine one from the same brand in black.

“What accent color would you like?”

Jean furrowed her brow, asked, “What do you mean?”

“Accent color,” Alma gave, as if it were obvious. “Your favorite. Something pretty.”

“Oh,” Jean said, still not understanding. “Turquoise.” 

Turquoise? Why had she said _turquoise?_ Though she didn’t have a favorite color, she couldn’t understand why _turquoise_ would be her first choice. Ignoring Jean's bumbling awkwardness, Alma found her a felt-tipped pen in the given color, then pointed in the direction of a different aisle.

“You’ll want a dotted notebook,” Alma said. “Ola likes Leuchtturm, but I like Moleskine better.”

“Okay,” Jean said, nodding, seeing her cue to leave. “Great. Thank you.”

“I’m going to be a while,” Alma gave, turning back to the pens, paying little attention to Jean, “so I’ll meet you at the car, if that’s alright.”

“Okay, yes,” Jean said, nodding quickly, too quickly. “I’ll see you at seven.”

And Jean ducked out of that pen aisle, finding the notebook aisle and being overwhelmed once again with the choice, but they had a matching turquoise Leuchtturm, whatever that was, so she took one down, brought it to the checkout, and _forty quid?_ How could pens and a notebook cost that much? This morning, she’d thought she would spend a few pounds on some pens, then use them for her bookkeeping, but now she would need to keep a real bullet journal. Forty quid? She handed the cash over with resignation, then glanced back at the aisle Alma was in, and the girl was kneeling to reach a certain display, and her shoulders were hunched over. There was something sad about her that Jean wished she could change. It was hard, she thought, to watch a child who was hurt go through life knowing Jean herself couldn’t do anything to ease the girl's pain.

The art store was in a shopping plaza next to the barely-a-mall nearest to her home, and she’d told Jakob that they would be back in time for dinner at seven-thirty, so she had almost two hours at her disposal, and she was out of trousers that fit. She needed bigger clothes. Looking at the mall, she thought of the maternity store in there - she’d googled it the night beforehand, pregamed the selection, and all of the drawstring tops, the nursing bras, had made her wince - and wondered if entering that store would be as torturous as following Alma through a pen aisle had been. But she forced herself onward, headed into the mall, hoped Alma wouldn’t follow her.

Why would Alma follow her? Jean couldn’t handle this. In some ways, she wanted Alma to continue hating her, for then they would be in separate orbits, never coming into contact with each other, never needing to wonder how the other felt. As she stood in front of the maternity store, tried to muster the courage to enter, she made fists in the pocket of her coat, wondered if she should go to Lululemon instead and buy lots of leggings. No, that was a bad idea, she still had clients to please, but then again, would her clients care? No, no, no, she needed real clothes. She needed real clothes. Even the dress she wore today, loose and tea length, perfect with a big sweater over top and a pair of knee-high boots, would eventually feel tight. She needed new clothes. She did, in fact, need new clothes. She needed to enter this scary store and buy new clothes. In the front windows, the store displayed mannequins whose plastic hands touched their plastic bellies, and she winced at the sight. _What’s in the oven, cupcake or studmuffin?_ She wished Jakob were here, if only because he would laugh at such things and hold her handbag while she tried clothes on.

Of course, a bubbly sales attendant came up to her as soon as she entered the store, asked with glee, “How are you doing today?”

“Just looking, thank you,” Jean said, an involuntary response, a reflex. She couldn’t go into Lush anymore after her last harrowing experience there, instead ordered their products online in order to forego the horrible sales experience.

“Great!” the perky woman said, a little too excited given that the store she worked at catered to those dealing with pregnancy or infants. “Ask me anything if you need help!”

And Jean didn’t need help. No, she did _not_ need help. How were these sized? Oh, the standard small-to-large, but how exactly would that work? Though she might fit one size right now, she had barely begun the second trimester, and she didn’t want to purchase something that would fit for only a few weeks. On the walls, there were pictures of models in positions that reminded Jean of fetish pornography, the on-purpose highlights and forced smiles. And the jeans, the _jeans_ , why would anyone buy maternity jeans? She couldn’t remember what she’d worn while expecting Otis, couldn’t remember the stores or the sizes or the styles, could only remember the acrid smell of Remi’s clothes, forcing her to buy men’s tee shirts and wash them so that they felt like a _husband shirt_ because she couldn’t stand the smell of his cologne. She’d kept Jakob’s shirt from last weekend, had done wash twice during the week and slept in it every single night.

So, two dresses. She could manage two dresses. She sized up in most clothes anyway, liked the looser fit, so she could stretch two dresses over the course of a few months. If she carefully scheduled her clients and kept a calendar of when she wore which dress, then maybe she could never repeat an outfit in front of them. No, no, that was a horrible idea. She couldn’t spend the next six months wearing either one of two dresses or leggings and Jakob’s shirt. No matter how appealing that might sound as she awkwardly asked for a fitting room, she _could not_ try to stretch two dresses over six months. 

Of course, the first dress, long and floral, fit awkwardly and made her look plump, short, and small-breasted. Why had she expected these to be flattering? _Because they’re fifty quid each,_ she thought as she tried on the next one. Blue stripes. Why would anyone put stripes on maternity clothes? She needed to get out of this store. Leaving the dresses behind - she felt guilty for not putting them back, but if she stayed in this store any longer, she felt she might explode - she raced out before the sales attendant could say _hope you come back soon,_ then looked toward the mall’s exit, tried to find her way out. 

But because the motherhood industry - she desperately sought out scientific terms to describe why she’d started panicking - had been built on selling overpriced goods to vulnerable people, there was a baby store across the way, and she stopped short, looked at the crib displays in the windows, mannequins showing off slings. She needed a new sling anyway, for the elastic at the edges of her old one now cracked when she pulled on it, the object no more than a keepsake. On the phone yesterday evening, Jakob had asked about where they would live, where the baby would sleep, and she had three spare rooms - her old office from before Remi moved out, the guest room, and the room that had been for her mother but after her mother’s death instead was used for storage - and though he knew many of the small, hopeful parts of her now, she still wouldn’t let him in to the fantasy she had of taking the girls to IKEA so that they could pick out beds and decorations. He’d paid off his mortgage, and though she knew such a thing would be impractical, she didn’t want him to move in, not entirely; he had his garden, and that was his space, a space he’d grown into. She wondered if they might keep two houses, if such a thing would be worthwhile. But the kids, they would need places to stay, she could rely on Ola and Alma needing rooms in her home, and if she cleaned out the guest room and the room for her mother, they wouldn’t even need to share. And Ola would be off to university soon, so maybe Jakob could use her room as an office after she moved out. But Jean didn’t tell Jakob any of that, instead said that they would make it all work, live together in whatever way each moment called for. 

_So it would be okay if I stayed with you a lot?_ he’d asked, a quiet kind of hope in his voice.

And she realized that he hadn’t asked about the logistics, about whose home they would move into; he wanted to know if she would be willing to sleep next to him at night, either with a newborn or without.

 _Yes, it would be,_ she’d said, and because she felt hot and anxious, she'd added a joke, _but if you snore, you’re sleeping on the couch._

The crib display had been engineered for the sole purpose of taking her from a panic attack in a maternity store to the mind-numbing baby clothes section of this store. It was the attention economy, and therefore, she wasn’t at fault for walking into the store, for touching the little onesies and thinking _oh my goodness, that’s so soft. And so small! How could anything ever be that small?_ And the sales attendants here were soft-spoken and gentle, and when she went over to the sling display, she found the same brand as the one she’d used when Otis was a baby, a wrap with a ring to adjust the tension, soft organic cotton, she’d kept Otis in that sling until he was a bit too heavy for it and ended up ripping a hole in the side as a result. Oh, this was indulgent. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric. This was so indulgent. With Otis, she’d opted for a multicolored sling, a bad choice given that it had ended up covered in stains, so now navy or charcoal grey seemed like a better idea, but which one? If she stayed outside with the baby, then the navy might feel too warm. Grey, then? The decision felt both inconsequential and monumental.

Taking her phone out of her handbag, she made a FaceTime call to Jakob; he picked up in the kitchen, where he poured olive oil over a sheet tray of vegetables to roast for dinner.

“Jakob, I’ve made a horrible mistake,” she said, then switched out of the front-facing camera so that he could see the sling selection.

“Where are you?” he asked. “Did Alma shake you off at the art store?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, then shook her phone for emphasis. “Grey or navy blue?”

“What are those?”

“They’re baby slings. Pick one.”

“Are you in a baby store?”

He was smiling all too much, so she rolled her eyes, repeated, “Grey or blue?”

“Grey,” he said confidently. “Good for a summer baby.”

“Great,” she said, taking a grey sling down from the display. “Thank you.”

As she went to hang up, he quickly said, “Don’t hang up. Take me with you.”

“I’m just going to pay and leave.”

“Why not look around a little?”

She went back to the front-facing camera, furrowed her brow.

“What do I need here?” she asked, wondering if he might want crib measurements or something equally carpenter-like. 

“To look,” he gave. “The clothes are so little.”

She felt as if she needed to scream, but in a good way.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “I’ll take you around.”

Going back to the clothes, she switched cameras, showed him the displays of the newborn onesies. Though she knew it was impractical to focus on the tiniest sizes, she couldn’t help it; she wanted to look at every single one of the littlest onesies and imagine a blue-eyed baby in them. Was this the hormone rush she’d been told to expect sometime at the start of the second trimester? Oh, she couldn’t help but touch the little things.

“I thought you needed new clothes,” he said from her palm as she picked up a tiny onesie featuring _hedgehogs_ in _hats_ and _bowties_ sitting on little _mushrooms_ and surrounded by _leaves._ “For yourself.”

Could he see the hedgehogs? In bowties? Oh, she couldn’t handle this. She simply could not handle this.

“This is so cute,” she said, holding the onesie in front of the camera. “Jakob, this is so cute. And so _small._ ”

“I could paint your spare room, if you like,” he said. “Unless you want to wait until the next scan to pick out a color.”

“Is it too early to buy newborn clothes?” she asked, ignoring him. “Or am I right to think that we should start now?”

“It’s never too early,” he gave. She could hear him start chopping potatoes for dinner. “Eventually, you reach a certain point, and _whoosh,_ your time, it flies away.”

“So I’m not being ridiculous.”

“You are always being a little bit ridiculous,” he said with a wide smile, and she wanted to eat him alive, in a good way.

“Hedgehogs are gender-neutral, right?” she said, for she _really_ couldn’t put this one down. Their little _hats!_ And _bowties!_ Maybe this had been a _boy onesie,_ for it wasn’t colorful or covered in ballerinas or princesses, but she didn’t care. Ola looked great in bowties. So did these hedgehogs. Oh, if she thought about clothes to take a baby home in, she felt she might combust.

“They’re hedgehogs,” Jakob gave, and that was enough of an answer for Jean.

She took one in the newborn size, then continued to amble through the store, and everything was so _small,_ and the little _shoes!_ Oh, baby shoes were the most pointless expense - some of these were even sixty quid, why would anyone pay that much for shoes that couldn’t be walked in? - but she picked a little Mary Jane up and thought, _it’s memorabilia too, isn’t it? And that counts for something._

“Do you have anything left from when Otis was a baby?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“I was in a few mothering groups at the time,” she said. “I gave everything but the keepsakes away.”

“We did too. I didn’t expect to need them again.”

“But that’s okay, isn’t it?” she said, maybe reaching. “We’ll make it work.”

She did still have the nursery curtains her mother had sewn even though she hadn’t hung them in more than a decade. Maybe that was where they would start.

“We’ll make it work,” he said, and the potatoes were on another sheet tray, drizzled with olive oil and dusted with chopped herbs. “I started on a blanket today. I can show you tonight.”

No, she couldn’t look at a blanket tonight, a baby blanket he was making for their baby, because if she did, then she would start crying, and she couldn’t explain why if the girls asked. Or maybe she would start crying right now in this store, and then not stop until tomorrow morning. 

“I can’t even begin to describe how sweet that is,” she said.

“And after that, I’ll-”

But then Ola came into frame, and Jean thrust her phone downward, tried to keep the angle away from all of the baby clothes. Had she seen anything? Had she _heard_ anything? Did she know? Did she-

“Hey, Jean!” Ola said, bright and chipper. Jean switched to the front-facing camera and tried not to appear anxious. “I hear you’re at the mall. Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“No, not at all,” Jean said, flustered. “What do you need?”

“There’s this comic that just came out,” Ola said, leaning against the kitchen counter. She was wearing a rainbow sweater with overalls and looked lovely. “Would you mind picking it up for me? The big bookstore in the plaza will definitely have it.”

“Of course I can,” Jean said, nodding. “Text me the name?”

“Sure,” Ola said, smiling widely. “Thanks!”

And then, she left the frame, and after a few moments of Jakob looking away from his phone, he turned back to face Jean, said, “Coast is clear.”

Sighing in relief, Jean asked, “Did she see anything?”

“I don’t think so."

“Is there anything else I should pick up?”

“No, no,” Jakob said, smiling warmly, “just those hedgehogs you like.”

And she left the mall with a new sling and a onesie, practical and impractical simultaneously, but then again, when would be a better time to buy baby clothes? Luckily, the bag from the baby store was discreet, no labels on the outside, so if she kept the bag in the backseat of her car, then Alma wouldn’t find it odd or unexplained. Jean left the bag in the car, then headed into the nearby Waterstones. 

Though she knew that this was a day for her to get to know Alma better, she wished that Ola had been able to come, wished even more that she could tell Ola about the pregnancy, for Ola would understand. Ola would look at the floral maternity dresses and wince in the same way Jean had, and of all of the children, Jean figured that Ola would be the most accepting, maybe even a little excited. While Alma would hate her for this, Otis would be flustered and maybe someday come around, and Ola would be surprised but joyful in the end. She wished she could ask Ola about style but figured that Ola wouldn’t have _style tips_ because her style was so wholly her own and effortless. Instead of making an effort to be cool, Ola simply was cool. Jean wished she had some of that in her, that natural way of being kind and interesting. Going through the comics, Jean squinted until she found the comic Ola had texted her, then pieced through each comic book until she found the right volume. 

Though she’d done all Ola had asked of her, she headed toward the checkout wishing that she could add in something else, maybe a festive bookmark, a token of appreciation. But wasn’t picking the comic up a sign of appreciation? Her head was swimming, and she needed to go home, but she and Alma weren’t going to meet back up until seven, and it was only six-fifteen now. She had time to kill, and though she could sit in the car, maybe play some Candy Crush, she didn’t want to waste that much time on her phone. And there were so many shelves of books, couldn’t she find one to hold her interest? For a moment, she thought about texting Ola - or Alma, even - and asking what her favorite book was, but no, that would look a little desperate. And there was a new Ann Patchett novel on display, that would be entertaining, so she grabbed a copy and headed over to the checkout, asked them not to waste a bag on such a small purchase. This location had a cafe with lots of seating; she could order a cup of tea and sit down with a book until seven. Though she may not have made any progress with Alma, at least she could have a relaxing afternoon.

After she ordered her mint tea for her, the barista saying he would bring it over to wherever she sat, she looked around at all of the seats, and though there were a few open tables, the cafe still held a crowd, and she wanted a comfortable seat, not one of those hard-backed chairs. As she looked around, she stopped short, for there was Alma, a sketchbook and a box of oil pastels on the table in front of her, a matcha latte with a heart done up in milk foam next to the book. The table could seat multiple people, and there was an open chair.

“Hey,” Jean said, trying to be gentle as she stood beside Alma’s table, “do you mind if I sit down? It’s a little busy in here, and it would be a shame to waste a table.”

Looking up from her sketchbook, Alma stared at Jean, and Jean could tell that Alma didn’t want to share the table, but the girl was polite, so she conceded.

“Alright,” Alma gave, then returned to her work. “But please don’t spill anything.”

So Jean sat down across from Alma, and when the barista brought over Jean’s cup of mint tea, Jean thanked him while Alma watched out of her peripheries. Though Jean had her book open on the table, she would look up ever-so-slightly from the page in order to see what Alma had drawn, and the scene was warm and blended, a coffee shop with green and red accents, almost cartoonish leather armchairs and a table as the focal point. She’d sketched and blended the very latte in front of her, the heart-shaped milk foam marked with precision, a bright green latte. Though at first Jean had wondered if this would be a handed-in assignment, if Alma had decided to do work for school while waiting for Jean, this drawing clearly was one done for pleasure. 

“You’re a very talented artist,” Jean said, then felt her cheeks flush. How was it that she could with ease talk about topics that made most cringe but couldn’t compliment this girl without being embarrassed?

“Thanks,” Alma gave, not looking up from her work.

And, _oh,_ Jean had had a plan. She’d had a plan. When she prepared for today, she thought about what children liked, and she knew the answer with ease: dessert before dinner. Weeks ago, Jakob had mentioned that Alma liked things from Japan, and since then, Jean had seen an article on FaceBook talking about how Japan had a really big variety of KitKat flavors, everything from ginger ale to melon. And what better flavor was there than green tea for a girl who loved matcha? In her pantry at home, Jean had 147 green tea KitKat bars, all special-ordered for Alma specifically, and she hoped that the three bars she had in her purse might change their relationship, so she took one out casually, tore open the wrapper as if it were no big deal. She took a bite, and when Alma looked up, the girl noticed that this wasn’t an ordinary KitKat. No, it was a _green tea KitKat,_ and Jean could tell that the girl wanted some.

Jean set down the open KitKat package, slid it toward Alma.

“Would you like one?” Jean asked as if she hadn’t bulk-bought these bars and had them shipped from Japan to her home so that she could befriend this girl. “I stole a bunch from a conference I went to, and now, I’m addicted. Please take some off of my hands.”

For the first time, Alma smiled - _smiled!_ \- at Jean, then reached out for the next wafer, said, “Thanks.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Jean said, “and here,” she took the other two bars out of her purse, “take these too. Heaven knows I don’t need them.”

Technically, she wasn’t lying; given that she had 147 other bars at home, she certainly didn’t need these three. 

“Thanks,” Alma said, still smiling. “I’ve always wanted to try these.”

“Really?” Jean asked, though she already knew that. “I’m glad I could give you some, then.”

Though Jean went back to her reading, and though Alma seemed to go back to her drawing, Alma kept glancing up at Jean every so often, and Jean pretended not to notice. She would turn to the next page in her book, sip her tea, pretend her tea hadn’t burnt her tongue, then turn the page again, and once, she met Alma’s gaze, watched as the girl quickly looked back down at her sketch, pretended she hadn’t been watching. 

“Do you like to read?” Jean asked.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Alma said, not looking up. 

“What’s your favorite book?”

“ _Looking for Alaska,_ ” Alma said. “Papa told me you wrote a book.”

“Two, actually,” she gave uncomfortably. “I wrote them a long time ago.”

“Do you like writing?”

Alma smudged a part of the background, her drawing becoming even cozier.

“Yes, I do,” Jean said, “but I’ve struggled to find something to write about since the release of my last book.”

“What did you write about before?”

Trying to find words, Jean thought about what would and wouldn’t be appropriate for a fourteen-year-old, then managed, “Has your father told you what I do for a living?”

“He said you were a therapist.”

“Yes,” Jean gave, “but specifically, I’m a sex and relationship therapist.”

Alma stifled a laugh, then met Jean’s gaze and stilled.

“Oh,” Alma said awkwardly. “You’re not kidding.”

Jean tried to laugh too, said, “Unfortunately, I’m not.”

“So you wrote about...that stuff?”

“Yes,” Jean gave. “That stuff.”

The silence between them felt painfully awkward, so Jean tried to think of something funny, something to ease the tension.

“Did your father ever tell you about how he and I met?” Jean asked.

Alma shook her head.

“Well,” Jean said, “I’d hired him to redo my bathroom, and I’m...I can be a bit scatterbrained. My datebook is notoriously unreliable, and it turns out that I’m not very good at mathematics. Either way, I’d forgotten that he was coming by, and I work from home, so when he showed up at my house, I assumed he was my scheduled client.”

Stifling a giggle, Alma asked, “How long did he keep the charade going?”

“Oh, I think he was more confused than anything else,” Jean said, laughing. “Worst of all, I started talking to him about probably the most awkward topic.”

“What was it?”

And Jean leaned in close, Alma joining her as if they were going to tell each other secrets.

“Scrotal anxiety,” Jean whispered, and they both giggled. “And anyway, the actual client knocked, and I apologized for the interruption, said I was having my bathroom redone, and your father said _yes, I have my tools outside_. It was very funny.”

It felt all too good to make the girl laugh, and as they both settled back into their activities, Alma’s oil pastels flitting across the page, Jean’s book better than expected, Jean could feel them both soften, the table growing less tense, the KitKat wrapper sitting empty between them. Checking her phone for the time, Jean saw that they had twenty more minutes, and when she went to put her phone away, she noticed Alma looking at the screen, her lock screen background, the picture of Jean and Jakob together at the restaurant.

“Do you want to see?” Jean asked, then placed her phone between them on the table, hit the home button so that Alma could see the picture. “Your father saw a couple taking a selfie and asked if he could take the picture for them, so they did the same for us.”

Alma looked down at the picture until the screen faded, then clicked the home button in order to bring the picture back.

“Your dress is pretty,” Alma said.

Jean thought she might cry.

* * *

“For real, thank you so much,” Ola said as Jean handed her the comic. “You don’t know how excited I am to have this. Give me a minute, and I’ll get my wallet to pay you back.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Jean said, patting Ola’s shoulder. “My treat.”

Jakob was grilling salmon for dinner, the roasted potatoes and vegetables all done. When Jean brought Alma home, Alma went straight upstairs, looking to unpack her new art supplies, and Jean waited with Ola in the living room, the two of them sitting together on the couch. 

“What did you guys get?” Ola asked, cross-legged on the couch. “Al’s been pestering Dad to buy her new oil pastels for weeks.”

“Well,” Jean gave, “I spent forty quid on pens.”

Ola laughed. “Why?”

“I’m horrible at bookkeeping,” Jean said, “so I thought I would start a bullet journal.”

“Do you want to see mine? For inspiration and such.”

“I would really appreciate that.”

So Ola stood up and headed upstairs, and then, Jakob came in through the front door, the salmon left grilling outside. Across the room, the woodstove was burning, and Jean cozied into her big sweater, comfortable on the couch. Though Otis had gone over to Eric’s for the night, she almost wished he could come to dinner here tonight, that maybe she and Jakob could tell the kids now instead. But she couldn’t get ahead of herself, and on Monday, they would share dinner for that purpose anyway. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be secrets within their families anymore.

“Hey,” Jakob said, taking off his shoes in the entryway and coming over to sit down with her. “Just a few more minutes."

He kissed her gently, casually, a _hello_ kind of kiss, and when he pulled away, she pulled him back, kissed him again, her palm resting on his cheek. Though she was hungry, she wished they could skip dinner altogether, could go upstairs and snuggle up in his big, warm bed and not get up until the sun rose tomorrow. It had been a long time since she’d felt as if she wanted a man’s company for no reason other than their shared quiet, ethereal pleasure. 

“Gross,” Ola said as she came back downstairs with her bullet journal, one of the Leuchtturm ones, an array of rainbow stickers and drawings on the outside. Then, she waved Jakob off, said, “Move.”

And she sat down alongside Jean while Jakob stood, went into the kitchen in order to check on the vegetables keeping warm in the oven. Opening the journal, Ola showed Jean the summary pages at the beginning - a table of contents, a year-long tracker, a calendar for that year - then flipped to the day-to-day pages, minimal but pretty, lime green accents above each written day. _Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, work 5 - 8, hand in women’s studies assignment._

“Does it take a lot of work?” Jean asked.

Shaking her head, Ola said, “Not really, no. I kind of find it meditative, actually. You just zone out and write your next week. No big deal.”

“Do you mind if I take a picture?” Jean asked. “For reference, that is.”

“No, go ahead!”

Taking her phone out of the pocket of her sweater, Jean tried to make the camera focus, the low light and warmth of the house challenging the device.

“You should see Al’s, though,” Ola said as Jean took a picture. “She’s got these wonderful drawings all in the margins. I can’t even imagine spending that much time on this, but I think she enjoys it a lot.”

Jakob headed back outside to check on the salmon fillets, and once dinner was on the table, the four of them seated around and passing serving dishes back and forth, Jean thought, _this is a dress rehearsal, without one of the actors. This is a dry run. I can practice right now._

“Did you have a nice time?” Jakob asked, looking at Alma and then at Jean. “Find what you were looking for?”

“Yes,” Alma gave as she cut into her salmon. 

Of course she would give a concise, no-nonsense answer. If Jakob asked later what Alma had done that afternoon, she likely would respond with _stuff._

“Thanks again for picking up that comic,” Ola said, nodding to Jean. “I swear, I wouldn’t have gotten it for _weeks_ otherwise.”

“Otis used to read a lot of comics,” Jean gave. The vegetables were crispy and roasted with wonderful herbs; she needed to hold herself back because she didn’t want to make herself sick from eating so quickly. “Nowadays, not so much, but he has a wonderful collection.”

“Yeah, he showed me a couple times,” Ola said. “More _Avengers_ than anything else, though. And a couple of cult classics.”

“I couldn’t tell you a single thing about any of them,” Jean said, laughing.

And though she’d decided that this was a performance of sorts, their tell-the-kids dinner on Monday to reprise this scene, she shockingly found dinner easy, the conversation lighthearted and normal, no tension around the table. As always, the food was fantastic, the potatoes crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, the herbs from Jakob’s garden so sharp and tasty, but the company was warm and welcoming too, and she felt that she could come back on Monday and be a welcomed guest. She could walk through the door and have Ola hug her, Jakob kiss her, and Alma respect that the two of them existed at the same time on the same planet. _Maybe they won’t be angry when we tell them,_ she thought, for their families were coming together anyway. Maybe Jean and Jakob would tell the kids and have everything stay the same. Maybe the hardest parts were behind them, and from here, they could move on to bigger and better things. Though their family wouldn’t be a conventional one, she could feel while sitting at that table that they all were a family nonetheless, one brought together by a growing-older kind of respect. Now, she was a part of Jakob’s daughters’ lives, and she wasn’t hurting either of them in the process. She knew that that was something important to realize.

As she put on her coat, heading out for the evening, Jean said, “Seriously, I won’t take your leftovers. I absolutely refuse to take your leftovers.”

“Oh, you need lunch for tomorrow,” Jakob said, standing alongside her by the door and holding out a tupperware container with perfectly portioned salmon, potatoes, and vegetables. 

“So do you.” 

She zipped up her knee-high boots, then tucked them under the hem of her skirt. Outside, the sky had grown so dark, and he needed to put more wood into the stove. The November chill had crept up on them, and now, she wished she could stay in his home, walk upstairs and climb into his warm bed, stay a while. At home tonight, she would be alone, and though she had plenty of DVDs to keep her company, so many books, even a new book that she really wanted to continue reading, she wished she could take him with her, could fall asleep against him while they watched something she’d seen a hundred times before and then ask him to carry her to bed. 

“We make brunch on Sundays,” Jakob said, still forcing the leftovers toward her. “And there aren’t enough leftovers for the three of us. Please take it.”

Sighing, she conceded, took the leftovers from him. He opened the front door for her, said _I’ll walk you out,_ and followed her as she headed to her car. Purse on the passenger’s seat, leftovers alongside, her copy of _The Dutch House_ peeking out from her bag. Above them were too many stars to count.

“I thought you were going to buy new clothes,” he said as she shut the driver’s side door, leaned against the station wagon. She didn’t want to leave just yet. “Are you feeling alright?”

She furrowed her brow, confused by what he meant, but as he stared at her with quiet concern, she realized that he thought she felt unattractive as her body changed. 

“Yes, I’m alright,” she gave, nodding. “It’s nothing like that, I promise.”

“I could go with you,” he offered, and she could picture it so easily, Jakob carrying shopping bags, Jakob doing up zippers, Jakob bringing her a mall pretzel because they smelled _so good_ , “if that would make things easier.”

“Really, I’m fine,” she said. “It’s not the fit or anything. It’s...the stores are a bit overwhelming. And I don’t shop very often, and I like the clothes I already have. And it’s hard to excuse buying something that I’ll only wear for six months.”

“Do your coats still fit?” he asked, then looked down at her swing coat, loose and drapey, maybe a bit shorter than usual but sure to fit until spring came. “Heavier ones, I mean.”

She sighed.

“Not really, if I’m being honest,” she gave. “I have one for the really cold weather, but it’s quite fitted.”

“I have a spare,” he said, nodding. “It might be long, but it should fit.”

“Oh.” Surprisingly, she hadn’t thought of something like that. So long as the coat was a few sizes wider than her normal, and a bit long for her height, she would probably fit in it for a long time. “That’s really sweet. Thank you for offering.”

“Ola is very good at finding things in charity shops,” Jakob said. “You should take her sometime.”

She smirked. “Am I now the chauffeur for your daughters?”

“Your car has better mileage,” he said, smiling, “and fewer tools.”

“I’m in a women’s book club too,” she said, nodding. “Maybe I can ask around, see if they’ll let me borrow anything.”

He looked toward the backseat of her car, smiled at the bag sitting there.

“No clothes for Jean,” he said, “only clothes for baby.”

“Okay, the sling is a practical item,” she gave, turning serious, “and I’ve already used one of those before. It was comfortable and useful, it’ll fit both of us, and-”

He kissed her so that she would stop talking, the contrast of the cool car door to his warm body against her, Jakob kissing her because he loved her. Though he hadn’t said so, she almost felt that he would never need to, for she could feel that love nonetheless. She’d felt it when he printed out every article he could find on cesarean births, when he made her dinner, when he called her at night and asked her how she was feeling, when he held her as if she were worth cherishing. Sometimes, she found herself strangely desperate to tell him that she loved him, wondered why she didn’t pepper such a thing into conversations, but this, _this_ was why. Words felt inconsequential when they both already knew. Though a part of her still longed to hear those words, she wasn’t sure how much they would matter, for she already knew.

“Drive safely,” he said, hand on her hip, thumb rubbing there. “No going fast.”

She laughed, raised her eyebrows.

“Hypocrite,” she said, and as she went to open her car door again, he kissed her once more, and she was going to miss him. She was going to miss him so much even though they would only be one day and a few miles apart.

* * *

She came home to a dark, quiet house. After she unlocked the door, she carried in a tupperware container of leftovers, a shopping bag holding baby things, and a handbag that had a pair of spare underwear inside just in case. Though she’d felt too full for such a thing after dinner, she now found herself desperate for dessert.

Flicking on the lights, she headed into the kitchen, her bags left on the table and her leftovers going into the fridge. Normally, nights like this one - the house to herself, dinner already served - were spent pouring a glass or two of wine and watching a movie, but she couldn’t drink anymore, and television felt more depressing than uplifting at the moment, and she had a book that she wanted to read. Was there ice cream in the freezer? She thought of Jakob’s little ice cream sandwiches. She thought of Jakob kissing her beneath the stars.

And she hadn’t sat in the glass conservatory on the side of the house in ages, and now that it was too dark and cold for her to sit on the porch, why not stay inside instead? With the many skylights and wide windows, she would be able to see all of the stars above while she read, the soft lights overhead - and maybe a few scented candles - lighting up her current page. But first, she wanted to get out of this dress, so she headed upstairs, found stretchy leggings that sagged behind her knees and one of Jakob’s sweatshirts, banished her bra and tied her too-long hair back - she desperately needed a trim now that it had all grown evenly past her shoulders but wasn’t sure if a cut and color would be okay for the baby, was thankful that she’d stopped bleaching and gone back to her natural color before she found out. In the freezer, she found a miraculously untouched pint of cookie dough ice cream, and she decided on a big spoon, carried the tub and her book out to the conservatory. Though the room was warm enough, she wanted a blanket anyway, so she took one off of the couch, then headed over to the window seat in the conservatory, sat opposite of the long dining table that she probably hadn’t eaten at in a decade. Usually, the kitchen table took over as hers and Otis’ breakfast spot during the cooler months, but they really ought to come out here more. In the sunlight, she figured she would be able to see all of the leaves on the trees. How beautiful.

She opened up her book to its marked page, dug her spoon into the pint of ice cream. She wore the blanket like a cape. Two pages in, she was shaken from her reading when her phone buzzed, new text message, and though she figured it would be Jakob saying goodnight, she looked down to find Maureen Groff’s number instead.

_Hey! My plans just got canceled. Fancy a drink??_

Though Jean typed out a _sorry, I can’t_ response and almost sent it, she hesitated, not wanting to blow Maureen off. Had Maureen mentioned yoga or that pressed juice bar, Jean would’ve said yes, but she couldn’t drink now and had no desire to sit in a bar. She did miss going dancing with Maureen, crazy times, and she hoped that next fall they would be able to do the same things again, but she couldn’t go right now. In order to keep Maureen around, Jean needed to participate in their little friendship, and it felt wrong to say no to drinks without explaining why.

 _I can’t,_ Jean typed in response. _I know this is going to sound crazy, but I’m pregnant._

She set her phone down, went back to her book, but within seconds, her phone was vibrating again, and again, and again.

_WHAT?????????!!!!!!!!!!_

_Does he know yet??????_

_Are you happy about it?_

_Are you doing anything tomorrow?? BRUNCH! Let’s talk_

Jean smiled, shook her head as she typed a response.

_Him yes, kids no. We’re both very happy. Juice bar?? 10?_

_IT’S A DATE!!!!!!!!_

Setting her phone down, she went back to her book, the stars above her bright, the blanket over her shoulders warm, the sweatshirt she wore smelling like him. When she grew tired, she would head inside, but for now, she had dessert and a book, and her Saturday night felt perfect.


	10. Chapter 10

She parked the station wagon out front of Jakob’s. In the passenger’s seat, Otis held his Switch, for Ola had asked if he could bring it, if maybe they could play some Smash after dinner. Jakob had made pumpkin pie for dessert, their little diversion, he would go into the kitchen in search of the pie while she started to explain why they’d all come together for dinner. Though she knew that dinner would be delicious, and though she’d only managed a light lunch because of her nerves, she’d grown more and more nauseous as they approached the Nymans’ home, and this time, she knew that nausea was from anxiousness, not the pregnancy.

“Mum?” Otis asked as she took the key from the ignition. She hummed a response, looked over to him, and he said, “You’re happy, right?”

Furrowing her brow, she said, “Of course I’m happy.”

“No, but _really_ though,” he said, and he looked at her with a too-mature concern in his eyes. He was asking her a question she ought to be asking him. “The last time we did this, it went horribly. And I know I said...I said bad things to you. And I want to make sure this isn’t some kind of overcompensation.”

Right, her _deep-rooted fear of rejection._ She’d have a hard time forgetting that conversation.

“It’s not,” she promised him. “I _am_ happy.”

“And there isn’t any weird pressure, or something?” he asked. “The last month has felt like a whirlwind, and I know it’s none of my business, but I feel like we’ve both been kind of a mess.”

He sighed, feeling awkward.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down at his lap. “I’m not making sense.”

“No, you are,” she said, nodding, trying to be soft for him. “It’s okay. October wasn’t easy.”

“I know that you were ill for a while.”

She stilled, then tried to measure her breathing, to appear nonplussed, but she knew he could see through her. She knew that they could see through each other with ease.

“I know you were trying to hide it,” he said, voice like a little boy’s, “so I didn’t ask about it, but it scared me, Mum. And I kept wondering what would happen if you were really ill, and I thought of Dad, and there’s been...I just haven’t had the best time recently.”

Trying to think of what she could address, trying to determine what secrets - she had trouble calling them anything but secrets - she could reveal, she managed, “I was ill last month. You’re right. And I didn’t mean to hide it from you, but it lasted longer than I expected. I’ve been to the doctor a few times, and everything’s normal. Just took me a while to get over.”

“You’re sure?”

She didn’t want to meet his gaze, for the way he looked at her was painful for both of them. 

“Completely sure,” she promised. 

And Otis shielded the Switch from the November rain as they headed into the Nymans’ home, the woodstove roaring and the scent of tomatoes and cheese filling the house. Ola and Alma had begun setting the dinner table, and the plates weren’t like Jakob’s typical white ones, no, these were painted with little blue flowers. At each setting, there were cloth napkins fastened with wooden rings. Though she wanted to scold Jakob for such an elaborate display - the kids weren’t supposed to know that they meant for tonight to be special - she softened at the sight of the table, the wool trivets waiting for dishes of eggplant parmesan to be sat down upon them, dessert plates left on the kitchen counter for after dinner. As Jakob took two trays out of the oven, he looked over to find Jean and Otis taking off their boots by the door; he met Jean’s gaze and smiled.

“Come in, come in,” he said, carrying the trays over to the table. He still looked hot wearing oven mitts. “Sit down. Would you like water, wine?”

Otis looked to Jean for permission; she shrugged, so he said, “Wine would be nice, if that’s okay. Mum?”

“None for me,” she gave, shaking her head, pulling off her coat. “Have to drive home.”

They both settled down on one side of the table, Jean next to Jakob’s spot at the head and Alma and Ola across from them. Wine was poured, glasses filled; Jakob asked if anyone would like salad, and because no one wanted any, they dug into the eggplant parmesan, taking a spatula to breaded rounds, the cheese thick and pulling from the baking dishes to their pretty blue plates, and Jean wondered if anyone around the table felt odd, if there was some cosmic strangeness to what they were doing, but Otis and Alma grimaced and laughed as they tried to cut a stretch of cheese, and Ola held a parmesan grater over Jakob’s dish and asked him to say _when_ even though almost a minute passed before Jakob finally said _when,_ and everything felt disconcertingly normal. Jakob mentioned that Alma had received a perfect grade on one of her art assignments, and the whole table celebrated together, Ola nudging her sister and Otis saying _that’s really cool,_ and when Jakob reached over to squeeze Jean’s hand, no one seemed to notice. 

“Jean, did Otis tell you about his little cycling incident?” Ola asked, legs folded on her chair, not sitting normally. “I think he’s a bit ashamed.”

Across the table, Otis grimaced, but Ola grinned. 

Turning to Otis, Jean asked, “What happened with your bike?”

“It’s not really a big deal,” Otis gave.

“His tire flat-out flew off,” Ola countered. “Like, the tire’s over here,” she outstretched her left arm and wiggled her fingers, “and he and the rest of the bike are,” she did the same with her other hand, almost smacking Alma in the process, “over here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jean asked Otis. “Does it need a tune-up? I have to head over that way for book club anyway. And how on earth did you get home?”

“Duct tape,” Ola said on his behalf. “And a number of hair elastics. And also two paperclips.”

“The tire’s kind of busted,” Otis said softly, just to Jean. “I’m sorry. I think it needs a new one.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she gave, cutting into her slice of eggplant. “Old tires. Things happen.”

“You should learn your own bicycle repairs,” Jakob said from the head of the table, nodding. He was wearing a blue flannel shirt that brought out his eyes, and Jean wanted to kiss him. “In Sweden, we all know our own bicycle repairs.”

“Why haven’t you fixed my bike, then, Dad?” Ola asked.

“Because I can’t bill you for my time!”

He kicked Ola beneath the table, and she laughed.

“Anyway, enough about bikes,” Ola gave, then turned to Jean. “Dad mentioned you might come to Sweden for Christmas.”

Alongside Jean, Otis choked a little, turned to her and asked, “What?”

Jean felt herself flush, managed, “It was only a conversation, nothing more.”

Looking back and forth, Alma asked, voice small, “When did you have that conversation?”

And Jean couldn’t let this girl hate her again, but before she could speak, Jakob said, “I invited Jean, and we have not yet purchased tickets. This is a bit last-minute, and it all depends on what her family is doing for the holiday.”

Jean knew what Otis was thinking alongside her, that they didn’t exactly have much family left because Jean was an only child with dead parents, but thankfully, he didn’t mention such things.

“Oh,” Ola said awkwardly. “My bad.”

“But that would be nice,” Alma added, nodding toward Jean, a small earnestness in the girl’s eyes. “I think you would like Sweden.”

“Yes,” Otis gave, and she couldn’t tell if there was sarcasm or animosity in his voice, “Mum and her wedges climbing through a snowbank.”

As dinner started to wind down, Jean felt her nervousness grow, no one taking more, plates empty. She watched Jakob take painstaking final bites, sensed that he too didn’t want to move onto the next phase of their evening, and though he had decided to take the lead, though he would be the one to get up, take the dishes to the sink, and bring out dessert while she started _the conversation,_ she wished she could ask him to stay seated for a few moments longer, stretch out the comfortable dinner conversation. She wished that Ola and Otis could go upstairs and play Smash for a little so that the announcement wouldn’t feel as forced or drastic. Though she thought the kids would be okay with the news, she brimmed with anxiety nonetheless, afraid of the worst-case scenario no matter how many times she told herself that such a thing wouldn’t happen. When Jakob finally stood, reached out for everyone else’s plates and silverware, she swallowed hard, tried to decide what she should say even though her mind felt horribly, painfully empty.

“So,” she gave, an awkward start; Jakob had the dishes in the sink, turned the water on for a rinse, “your father and I - well, Jakob and I, but your father...you know what I mean.”

Ola leaned her elbows on the table; Alma glanced back at Jakob, seeking out the pumpkin pie. Otis crossed his arms, looked to Jean with minimal interest.

“Well,” Jean managed. She folded her hands on the table, stared down at her fingers. Was she allowed to paint her nails while pregnant? They could at least use a trim. “Jakob and I have been...you know. We’ve been...together.”

Ola furrowed her brow in a _yeah, obviously_ kind of way, and Alma stared at the pumpkin pie as it traveled in Jakob’s safe hands from the kitchen to the table, then was sat down on top of a trivet. Jakob’s pie plate was ceramic and hand-painted to look like birch bark, and on top of the pie, he’d brûléed sugar for a crunch on top of the filling.

“So either way,” Jean managed as Jakob set out dessert plates for everyone, “we - your father, Jakob, and I - wanted to talk to all of you about something.”

Jakob sliced into the pie, shimmied the knife back and forth through the crust. 

“And I know that this will come as a surprise,” Jean managed, then added, “thank you,” as Jakob served her a slice of pie, “and it came as a surprise to both of us as well, and we did intend to tell you sooner. Or, at least, we meant to tell you sooner, but some things were jumbled, so now we’re here.”

Alongside Jean, Otis was anxiously tapping his leg. When Alma was finally served a slice of the pie, she grinned and picked up her dessert fork, then hovered the fork over her plate, not yet, she needed to wait until everyone else had a slice of pie.

“So what I mean to say,” Jean gave, dancing around the point until she grew dizzy. Finally, everyone had dessert, and Jakob was sitting alongside her, and Alma started eating. “What we wanted to tell you all is that I’m pregnant.”

Alma’s fork stilled, and across the table, Ola raised her eyebrows. While Jakob and Jean froze, waiting for some kind of reaction, they glanced to each other, and she felt them share a moment of _what have we done?_

Then, Otis laughed, and Jean quickly turned toward him, eyes wide, horrified.

“Mum,” he gave, shaking his head. “Come on.” She furrowed her brow, and he rolled his eyes, said, “Funny.”

“It’s not funny,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s...not.”

He sobered, managed, “You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.”

Ola cut in, “How long have you known?”

But this was a question for Jakob to answer, not one intended for Jean, so Jean looked to Jakob, and he struggled to find words, managed, “Two months.”

Had it been that long? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t do the mental math - what had, of course, gotten them here in the first place - and as she tried to think back, fourteen minus...when had she told him? After the play, no, not after the play, a few days after the play. Back then, she’d been too nervous to speak to him, but as he left the play that night, as he kept glancing back at her while he left the school, she’d thought there might be more for them. She’d thought they could be more, together. And they could be, they _could_ be, and she wanted to tell everyone at the table that as Alma lowered her fork, her pie going untouched, but Otis looked at her incredulously, and even Ola furrowed her brow in a sad kind of way, big news hitting hard. No, the kids weren’t happy about this. They weren’t happy at all.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Alma asked, voice small.

Jean looked up to meet the girl’s gaze, and she watched as every bit of progress she’d made with Alma - the _scrotal anxiety_ admission, the hundreds of KitKats in her pantry, the boxes of cookies, face masks given away because they broke teenagers out - faded away so quickly. She watched as the girl started to hate her again, maybe even more than before.

“You said you wanted to,” Alma gave, “but you didn’t.”

Jean looked to Jakob, then tried, “I did my calculations of the weeks wrong. I know it sounds so stupid, but-”

“No,” Alma said, shaking her head, “why didn’t you tell us as soon as you found out?”

Taking a deep breath, Jean said, “You’re not supposed to tell others as soon as you find out. In the first trimester, there is a high risk of-”

But Alma stood up and walked quickly away from the table, ascending the stairs in twos, exiting the conversation altogether, and though Jean went to stand, wanted to follow the girl upstairs, Jakob reached for Jean’s arm, held her down while she watched Alma leave.

“Give her a moment,” Jakob whispered to Jean, and Jean thought she might start crying.

When Jean sought out Otis’ and Ola’s reactions, she found Ola still quiet, still sad in such a small way, and Otis stood up, paced aimlessly, slowly back and forth from the table to the living room, hands against his head, trying to work out what was going on.

Turning back to the table, Otis asked, “Were you using birth control properly at the time?”

“ _Otis,_ ” Ola scolded, _that’s the wrong thing to ask._

“No, seriously,” Otis forced, “were you using birth control properly at the time? I’d like to know, Mum.”

Jean tried to calm her nerves, managed, “Otis-”

“Because I sincerely doubt that this was planned,” her son gave, shaking his head. “And I’d like an answer.”

Trying to control her reaction, Jean managed, “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is,” Otis said. “It’s a _yes_ or _no_ question, Mum.”

She swallowed, and apparently, that was enough of an answer, for he shook his head, said, “You’re a hypocrite.”

“Otis-”

And he reached into her coat-pocket and found the keys to the car, then stuffed his feet into his boots, gathered up his coat and Switch, and left the house. At least he had the kindness not to slam the door as he left.

Then, only Ola, Jean, and Jakob remained at the table, and the poor pie went woefully untouched, the exposed parts of the birch dish showing off little green leaves. He’d gotten out his beautiful blue-flowered dishware tonight. He’d had the girls set out cloth napkins with wooden rings.

“I can answer any questions,” Jean managed, nodding to Ola, “if you have them.”

Ola met Jean’s gaze, then looked down, shook her head.

“Sorry,” she gave, genuinely apologetic. “It’s a lot to process.”

Then, Ola glanced back at the staircase, and Jean could tell what she was thinking: she didn’t want to be the only child at the table. 

“I’m going to go check on Al,” Ola said, excusing herself. “Sorry.”

With Jakob and Jean alone at the table, Ola disappearing upstairs, Jean looked to Jakob, and though his face showed fewer emotions than hers did, she knew that there was something he tried to conceal beneath the surface, not surprise but still a kind of overwhelming discomfort that came from something unexpectedly going wrong. He’d had them use his nice plates for dinner. No one was going to eat his pie. Reaching out, she took his hand, held it in both of hers, and she wanted to hold him, but she feared that if she did, then she would start crying, and she couldn’t start crying, not now. No, she needed to drive home, and she needed to seem alright in front of her son because she would feel pitiful if she cried while he was angry with her. And he was angry with her. He was completely, totally angry with her, and the worst part was that he had a good reason to be. The worst part was that he was right.

“Jakob,” she said, asking for something, asking for anything, asking for what she would never be able to describe.

He sighed, and she could feel his defeat. She could feel his overwhelm at having to go upstairs and talk to his daughters. And she would go home with an angry son, and they would sleep in their own rooms, and they would wake up and share an awkward breakfast before school. If his bike’s tire had been beaten badly enough, then she would need to drive him to school, or maybe he would wake up at four in the morning and walk instead just so that he could avoid her. And worst of all, she found herself wishing he would avoid her in such a way, for then she wouldn’t be forced to watch him hate her.

“I think you should go home,” he said softly, knowing that the words would hurt but not knowing how else to say them. And he was right, painfully right. “I think that would be best.”

“Yes,” she managed, nodded to herself as she let go of his hand. “Yes, you’re right.”

And she went over to the door, put on her little rainboots and pulled her raincoat over her shoulders, and she had cycled through the same couple of big sweaters ever since she started showing, and now, she would be able to wear something else. She would be able to wear something else. In her closet, she had a few cropped sweaters, nice for putting over dresses, and though those sweaters would have exposed too much before, she could wear them now. But she would wear the same few big sweaters over and over again for the rest of the winter if it meant that Otis wouldn’t look at her with contempt, and she would have had the abortion instead if she’d realized that Alma would look at her with such betrayal, if she’d realized that befriending the girl first would only make the reveal hurt more.

“Jean,” Jakob managed, coming over to her as she went to leave his home, but she put a hand up toward him, closed her eyes in discomfort, asked him not to, for if he comforted her right now, she would start crying, and she couldn’t show Otis how she felt. She couldn’t cry in front of him, so she ducked out of Jakob’s home and into the rain, where her son sat in her parked, running car and waited for her to take him home.

* * *

She hovered a hand over one of the two long, loose sweaters she’d been wearing over and over again, overwhelming with how she could wear something else.

In some way, the emancipation reminded her of graduating from her first degree: though she was satisfied with knowing that a period of her life had ended, that she’d overcome certain obstacles and managed her way through the degree, there still was the foreboding presence of the next period of her life, so many unknowns in her future. Today, she could wear a cropped sweater instead, maybe even a tighter - though not by much - dress. Yes, she had a sweet little cardigan, too cropped to wear with mid-rise trousers, a spring-fall top-layer when she ached to wear a dress. On the sides of the cardigan, there were little feathered details, and she loved the leather buttons, all in different avant-garde shapes. And a nice cotton dress, pretty and red, she would look the season today. Unfortunately, she needed to wear wool socks and little boots - she hated not being able to wear her wedges - but as she took off Jakob’s shirt - though other night-dresses she owned still fit, she'd known she needed comfort last night and had refused to put anything else on - she thought that maybe different clothes would make her feel better. Maybe the boots wouldn’t be so bad, given that they were paired with clothes that no longer made her feel as if she were keeping horrible secrets.

And as she undressed, she caught sight of herself in the standing mirror in her bedroom, and she stilled. Had she really never looked? No, she hadn’t, for looking at her body now, _really_ looking, felt like a silent threat. If she looked, if she saw all of this as real, then she couldn’t conceal it anymore, but now, the kids knew. Though the kids hated her for it, at least they knew. At least she didn’t have to hide anymore. And she went to the mirror and turned so that she could look, really look, and she stared at her reflection, her mind going blank. As strange as it was, she looked pregnant, only a little but enough to be obvious. Had she been younger, people would’ve asked by now. Though she couldn’t remember being this big at fourteen weeks with Otis, she knew that people tended to show earlier in subsequent pregnancies, but still, she looked down with shock. 

How did Jakob see her, now that she looked like this? Had the kids suspected anything before the announcement? She ran the palm of her hand over her belly and almost felt as if she were touching something that didn’t belong to her. When would she start to feel the baby move? Had she been at Jakob’s, she could’ve consulted one of his many books, but now, all she had was a google search on her phone, and that felt horribly inconsequential. No, she would wait and see. She would go to her next appointment and ask. And until then, beneath her palm was a baby, their baby, the most unexpected surprise, and against her better judgment, against the kids’ opinions and the strangeness of this time in her life, she loved this baby. She wanted to feel it move. She wanted that next scan, a better picture, something painfully clear. And names, she wanted to talk to Jakob about _names,_ and everything felt of overwhelming importance, of privilege. In April, she would be split open and handed a baby, and though thinking about the operation made her wince, she imagined those first few moments, those small little moments, and felt her heart swell.

She really did want this baby. Now, she had no doubt that she wanted this baby, and based on the ridiculous pile of library books, she knew that Jakob wanted this baby too. The kids would come around, wouldn’t they? If she showed Otis that she was happy, then maybe he would be happy too.

When they had brunch together, Maureen had been so excited, all too willing to talk about the little details, _how did he react? When are you going to tell the kids? Do you know the gender yet? When are you due?_ And over smoothie bowls, they chatted about those indulgent things, the things Jean had only spoken about to her therapist, and Jean found herself smiling the whole time. With Jakob, she felt free to speak about such things, but there was something different about talking to a friend rather to a partner. While Jakob could offer a spare winter coat, Maureen could offer stories of strange cravings and kicking and breast pain and having to wear gauze underwear for two weeks postpartum. And Maureen had hated buying maternity clothes too.

“I swear,” she gave, shaking her head at brunch, “it’s the most pointless expense. Michael never understood why I couldn’t wear a bigger size instead.”

“I haven’t worn a pair of trousers in weeks,” Jean said, sipping her breakfast tea.

“You could try the charity shops,” Maureen said. She was wearing cashmere sweatpants, her hair newly highlighted. She was living her best life. “I’m sure you can find a few pairs of trousers.”

“I was thinking,” Jean said. “I’m in this book club. All women, varying ages. We have a FaceBook group. Would it be rude if I asked to borrow any of theirs?”

“Oh, not at all!” Maureen said, a little too delighted. “Believe me, they probably want to give that stuff away anyway.”

So before breakfast on Tuesday, Jean went into her office and sat down at her laptop, opened FaceBook and then agonized over the message she should send.

_Hello! My name is Jean, and I’ve been in the book club for a few weeks now_

No, they’d all joined the book club at the same time, no new members since its inception. She deleted what she’d typed.

_Hello! I’m Jean, and I’ve really enjoyed our conversations so far. Recently, I found out that I am_

No, no, no. She found out a long time ago. Though she could lie about enjoying conversations, she couldn’t lie about things that mattered.

_Hello! I’m Jean, and I’ve really enjoyed our conversations so far. I’m writing here because I’m pregnant and, because I don’t plan on having more children after this one, I was wondering if any of you had maternity clothes that I could borrow rather than purchasing new ones. I promise not to wear anything out and to promptly return it clean and in good condition._

Aimlessly, she tapped her nails against her desk. _Would it be weird to add?_ she wondered.

_Also! Before anyone asks: I’m due at the end of April, and we don’t know the gender yet. Thanks for helping!_

Wincing as she did so, she sent the message, then closed her laptop, headed into the kitchen for breakfast. Otis had already sat down with his toast and coffee, his expression unreadable. As she filled the kettle with water, put it on the stove, she kept glancing at him, trying to see if he felt differently today. Maybe the surprise had worn off. Taking a mug from the cabinet, she dropped a mint teabag inside, waited for the water to boil. When she next glanced over at Otis, she caught him staring awkwardly at her, and only as he turned away did she realize that he noticed the truth now, was given no opportunity to deny it.

“I thought I could drive you to school today,” Jean gave, taking the kettle from the stove and pouring hot water into her mug. “My first client is at ten. I could drop your bike off in town, if you’d like.”

“My bike is fine,” he huffed, then bit into his toast.

“Really, darling,” Jean insisted, “I don’t want you getting into any accidents. The roads you take don’t have cell reception, and-”

“Mum, my bike is fine.”

His tone told her that he wouldn’t speak on this matter anymore; she nodded in acknowledgement, sat down beside him with her tea. What could she say to make this better? _Nothing,_ she thought, but she refused to do nothing.

“Otis,” she said, trying to soften, trying to seem open, “I know that this is all a shock, and I know that...that you’re upset with me. And I understand that, I promise that I do. But that’s no reason to risk your safety-”

“Safety?” He laughed with disbelief. “Okay, Mum, let’s talk about _safety._ Of all people, I’d think that you would know that unprotected sexual intercourse-”

“ _Otis-_ ”

“Will put you at higher risk for contracting HIV, HPV, and don’t even get me _started_ on other sexually transmitted infections, Mum. Such as-”

“Otis, stop.”

“And then, of course,” he continued, “there’s the risk of getting pregnant, which I’m assuming you are aware of by now. And that can very drastically alter your life, Mum, in case you didn’t know that.”

“Otis, this is getting hostile.”

“What did you expect, Mum?” And he seemed more exhausted than outright angry, frustrated with her. “That we would all accept it with open arms? We’re almost adults now, and you’re...you’re not a teenager, Mum. Of all people, you should know better. Of absolutely all people.”

Though she’d cried all she thought she could last night alone in bed, she felt tears come to her eyes again, but she wouldn’t cry in front of him. She folded her hands on the table and refused to cry in front of him.

“Walk me through it,” Otis gave, crossing his arms over his chest. “Tell me why you chose not to use protection.”

“Otis, that’s-”

“It can’t possibly be _that_ personal, Mum,” he insisted, “given that you’re making it everyone else’s problem too.”

Sighing, she closed her eyes, looked down, tried to think back. Since she’d had her contraceptive implant removed, she hadn’t had regular menstrual cycles, so missing a period came as no surprise and thus challenged her doctor regarding a due date. She couldn’t look back on one sexual experience and think _yes, this is the one during which we conceived a child,_ and instead had to piece through many different times, Jakob staying over, Jakob on his couch, Jakob in her office, Jakob in her bed. And each time, every single time - except the first and second, she held steadfast to those - they hadn’t bothered using a condom, for he’d had a vasectomy and exactly zero sexual partners since his late wife, and she knew sexual health better than much of anyone. Of course, she should’ve taken contraceptive pills, should’ve gotten the IUD she’d intended to get anyway in hope of staving off menopause symptoms, but she never did either of those things.

And why not? Because she’d naively thought she would be safe. Otis was right; she should have known better.

“I had a contraceptive implant,” she gave. She assumed he already knew this; the mark on her upper arm had been thin but fairly obvious nonetheless. “It ended up giving me headaches, so I had it removed, and though I meant to find a new method of birth control, I...didn’t.”

Of course, this was unimpressive to Otis, so he asked, “And what about him?”

Furrowing her brow, Jean asked, “What do you mean?”

“He didn’t bother with a condom?”

“No, we did use condoms at first.” Her cheeks felt hot. She really didn’t want to talk about this.

“Did the condom break?” Otis prompted, sounding more clinical than social. “Did you take the morning after pill? And what possessed you to stop using them, Mum?”

“No, it didn’t break,” she said, and the embarrassment flushed her. She really, really didn’t want to talk about this. “And he had a vasectomy. The chances were slim to none, Otis. One in a million.”

“The chances were slim to none when you weren’t adequately using birth control, Mum?” He stood up, leaving his plate behind, heading for the door. “I happen to disagree.”

And before she could call out to him, he slammed the door behind him, raced up the steps, headed out and away. He would ride to school on poor roads using bike tires that needed replacement, and if he got hurt, he wouldn’t be able to call for help. And if she raced after him, if she followed him in her car, then he would only grow angrier, and she couldn’t risk that. No, she needed to let him go. Even as she started to cry at the discomfort of it all, she needed to let him go.

* * *

 _I am not being ridiculous,_ she thought as she parked in front of Moordale, the end-of-day bell about to ring. _I am not being ridiculous, for my son’s bike is broken, and he shouldn’t be riding it. If the tire popped off on its own, then there’s absolutely no reason why he should be riding it, and down country roads no less, and I need to take his bike into the shop to be fixed. I cannot let him bike home. I would be a worse parent if I did not come to his school unannounced and force him to come home with me. This is a good parenting decision, Jean. You are making the right decision, Jean._

And she peeked out the window and watched as all of the other students streamed out of the building, and though she couldn’t see the bike racks from where she was, she knew that Otis would come this way, that he had to go in her direction in order to head home. What if he had a club meeting, an appointment with a friend? No, it was Tuesday, no meetings on Tuesday, and she would inevitably see him even if he decided to have a coffee with a friend. He probably had homework. He would probably be thankful for the ride, giving him extra time for said homework. And the day was cool and windy, November’s chill coming to them, cloudy and overcast. Would they have rain tonight? All the more reason to drive Otis home instead, and to maybe drive him to school tomorrow morning too.

But the last trickle of students was heading down the nearby steps, and she didn’t see Otis and Eric at all. Had they gone somewhere to study? Were they staying late for some kind of extracurricular? Why hadn’t she bothered to read the weekly school parent email this week? If she went inside, would she find Otis? No, that was a bit over-the-top, even for her, but-

Two knocks came to her car window, and she jumped in her seat as she turned around to see Ola standing there, smiling apologetically and motioning for Jean to roll her window down.

“Hey,” Ola said awkwardly, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” Jean gave. “Have you seen Otis?”

“Oh, he’s gone already.”

Jean furrowed her brow, said, “But he has to come this way to go home.”

“I think Otis and Eric were going to do something before they went home,” Ola gave. “Candy bars down at the shop. You know how it is.”

Though she didn’t know how it was, she managed, “Oh. Alright.”

“Either way,” Ola said, putting her palms out flat, big gestures, “you’re here, and I’m here, and I could use a ride if that would be okay.”

“Oh!” Jean gave, then reached over to unlock the passenger’s side door. “Absolutely. Where to?”

Ola smiled, gave a soft _thanks_ as she opened the door and settled into Jean’s passenger’s seat, backpack set down next to her high-tops with rainbow laces. 

“There’s a charity shop next to that one bakery,” Ola said. “Do you know it?”

Yes, the bakery where she’d gotten her somehow-surviving sourdough starter. Because her first client today had been at ten, she’d thought yesterday about using the discard to make sourdough pancakes in the morning, but after Otis’ poor reaction, she figured she would end up throwing the stuff away instead.

“Yes, I do,” Jean said, then rolled up the window, turned the key in the ignition. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“A fluorescent vest.”

Furrowing her brow, Jean asked, “Like the ones they wear at construction sites? Or airports?”

“Exactly like.”

“Why?”

“I just got a new job!”

“Oh!” Jean backed out of the parking spot, shifted, headed away from Moordale. “Doing what?”

“Some super basic construction on weekends,” Ola said, nodding with satisfaction. “Pays _great._ I think all I have to do is wear a hard hat and boss people around because I have absolutely no credentials. And I happen to need a fluorescent vest, and I _know_ this charity shop has some, but my ride flaked on me.”

Jean smiled.

“Well, I’m glad we ran into each other, then.”

Though she wanted to ask Ola so many questions - about her thoughts, about Alma, about the night beforehand, about how she would adjust to a new sibling - Jean tried to keep quiet, to let Ola lead the conversation, and thankfully, Ola was a great leader. Her new job, her girlfriend’s strange alien comics, a video game announcement she’d just heard and been so excited about, Ola had plenty to talk about with Jean, and though Jean could only follow so much of it - she didn’t know anything about video games - she still liked listening. The best relationships, Jean knew, were filled with teaching, the sharing of one’s cherished information with another. 

When Jean parked in front of the charity shop, she wondered if she should go into the bakery and pick up something to pair with dinner - the weather, as well as her own sadness this morning, had influenced her to make lentil soup in her mother’s old slow-cooker - while Ola found the perfect vest for her new job, but Ola popped out of the car, threw her backpack over her shoulder, and asked the hesitant Jean, “Are you coming?”

Of course she was coming. Yes, of course she was. Picking up her handbag from the backseat, she left the car, headed into the shop with Ola. 

* * *

“Okay, stupid question,” Ola said, her voice carrying from her own fitting stall to Jean’s. “Why can’t you just wear regular clothes? In a bigger size or something.”

Though Jean could go through the _uterus below hips_ talk, she had no desire to explain anatomy while off the clock, especially not while trying on maternity clothes, so she gave, “Everything sits lower, so if you just size up in trousers, they end up falling down. It’s an awkward angle, so you need a higher waistband.”

“Kind of unfortunate,” Ola gave. “Like, here’s seven pairs of pants you’ll never wear again. Enjoy.”

Jean laughed, said, “Now you understand why I have no desire to shop for this stuff.”

But she managed to find a few things while Ola shopped for more than just a fluorescent vest. Now, Jean had a pair of wide-legged black corduroys, a sky blue wrap-top, a few pairs of awkward palazzo pants, and an all too standard pair of black slacks, and as she pulled off her own sweater and dress, she hoped that at least one thing she’d found would fit. 

“I won’t lie, this was pretty unexpected,” Ola said from the next-door fitting room. “Like, for a second there, I thought you were joking.”

Pulling one of the pairs of palazzo pants up, Jean sighed. 

“You weren’t the only one to think that,” she gave.

These palazzo pants were covered in an orange and brown pattern. They were hideous, but they fit. Begrudgingly, Jean took them off and hung them on a _maybe_ hook.

“But I’m cool with it,” Ola said. “Just took me by surprise, is all. I’m sorry that last night went so…”

“Poorly,” Jean filled in for her. 

The second pair of palazzo pants was maroon and shimmery, and only five quid. She could work with that.

“Seriously though,” Ola said as Jean hung up the second pair of pants and took down the corduroys. “We all just...overreacted. But I’m cool with it. Can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m cool with it.”

Jean chewed her lip, wondering if it would be wrong to ask.

“How’s your sister taking it?” Jean asked, trying to sound casual.

 _You already know how she’s taking it,_ Jean told herself, but still, had Alma slammed doors this morning? Did she cry last night? Oh, Jean didn’t want to imagine Alma crying, not at all.

“You’d have to ask her,” Ola shrugged off. “I need your opinion on something.”

“Oh?”

When Jean pulled the corduroys off of the hanger, she found that they weren’t the pair of pants she’d expected; no, these were wide-legged corduroy _overalls,_ complete with little buckles at the collarbone. Though Jean had never owned a pair of overalls, she looked down at this pair and thought she wouldn’t mind branching out.

“I need your opinion on something too,” Jean gave, then pulled the overalls on, tucked the sweater she’d worn today underneath the bib for modesty’s sake. 

When they both stepped out of the fitting rooms, Ola wore a navy jumpsuit with tigers printed on top, cap sleeves and gold buttons down the front. Gesturing to the print, Ola asked Jean, “Can I pull this off, or is it a bit much?”

“You _absolutely_ can pull it off,” Jean said, reaching out to fluff one of the cap-sleeves, do up one of the undone buttons. “Oh, it suits you.”

“Do you think?” Ola asked, looking down at her outfit and beaming. “It’s only six quid.”

“I definitely think so,” Jean said.

Ola fussed with one of the buckles of Jean’s overalls - she’d latched it with the wrong side out - then stood back and looked, crossing her arms and analyzing top to bottom.

“Not what I’d expect from you,” Ola gave, “a little tame, but _so_ posh.”

“Really?” Jean asked, looking down. “They seem a bit casual. But not frumpy, at least.”

“Have you seen those maternity stores in malls?” Ola asked.

Jean huffed, said, “Unfortunately.”

“Scary places. You couldn’t pay me to even go in. Everything’s so... _straight._ Not that that’s an insult or something.”

“Believe me,” Jean gave, “I understand.”

“Either way,” Ola said, pointing up and down at the overalls, “go for it. Totally suits you.”

And when Jean went back inside of the fitting room, she saw that even though these overalls weren’t what she normally would consider _her style_ , not very flowy or colorful, she liked the way they looked with her sweater, and they were loose enough to last a long time but fitted enough not to look too big. And they were ten quid, so what did she have to lose?

“Thank you,” Jean called over to Ola’s fitting room while she hung the overalls up again, pulled her dress back on, “for taking this well. I know it’s not an easy thing to hear, and you haven’t had much time to mull it over, but...thank you for being kind about it.”

Ola paused for a moment.

“I really am cool with it,” Ola said, “in case you have doubts.”

“No, no,” Jean gave. “No doubts.”

At the checkout, Jean said that they would pay together, then took out her credit card, and when Ola grimaced, said she would pay Jean back, Jean said they should grab coffee sometime, and Ola softened, smiled, and agreed.

* * *

“Do you want to talk to Dad?”

As Jean parked in front of the Nymans’ home, she hesitated, hand still on the gear shift. Ola had her backpack on her lap, the new jumpsuit and fluorescent vest peeking out from the unzipped side of it, and it was such a simple question. _Do you want to talk to Dad?_ And Jean was Jakob’s - and she hated the word but used it anyway - _girlfriend,_ and they’d told their children that they were expecting a child together. So, did she want to talk to Dad? Of course she did, but she hated that _of course_ a little. She hated that someone would care about how she felt, how she had fared in the aftermath of their announcement. Though she cared for him, even loved him, she wished her grief could be her own, entirely inward, not relevant to anyone else, not important. Back when she and Remi were working through their divorce, she'd talked to Catherine about her feelings on the matter, and she’d known during those sessions that, had her mother still been alive at the time, the grief would have been different. It was lonely and empowering simultaneously, she knew, to not be indebted to those who cared about her. Though the pain of that loneliness was staggering, she looked out at the house and wished she could go home instead. She didn’t want to feel the emotional overwhelm of seeing him right now.

“Yes, if that would be alright,” Jean gave, then turned off the engine, let Ola out of the car.

“Thanks again for driving me,” Ola said. “See you soon.”

And Ola headed toward the house, door unlocked, the sun setting so early now, November in full swing, and Jean looked and felt pregnant, and at home her son was angry with her. At least one of the children didn’t hate her, one of three, the ruling hardly in her favor but better than none. The door tucked closed behind Ola; Jean stared at the door and wondered if Jakob would come out, or maybe he would text her and say he was making dinner and that he would invite her inside if things weren’t so volatile, or maybe he would ignore her and then call her tonight and apologize. _I didn’t want to cry in front of my girls,_ he would say, but no, no, he would never say that. Had he cried in front of them before? She could picture him at his wife’s funeral, holding his daughters’ hands, staring at a casket and crying because he couldn’t do this without the woman they were about to bury. He wasn’t a man who feared his emotions. Maybe they were matched in that way, his feelings so big and open while hers were punched-down and hidden. Maybe she wanted to see him so that she had permission to feel.

The door opened, and he stood before her in a heather grey sweater and jeans that had seen better days, and she felt her breath catch. Though she’d seen him yesterday evening, she’d missed him in the few hours since. She’d missed him so much. 

Getting out of the car, she let him lead her over to a plywood bench in the garden, maybe more of a shelf for seeds in the summer than a real bench. Now, the garden was mostly empty, turned down for the season; they sat together on the bench, the November weather too cold on her bare hands, and they looked out at the empty beds. Not the right season, so much brighter in summer.

“She told me that she was okay with it,” Jean said, not looking at him. She folded her hands on her lap, tried to maintain her composure. “I don’t know if she told you.”

“She didn’t.”

When he spoke, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Though she'd known they both needed space last night, she’d turned off the lights in her bedroom for the evening and wished she could call him and hear his voice, even if only for a little while.

“Sometimes, it’s easier to tell someone one doesn’t know as well,” Jean explained, always going to her education in times when she lacked control, “for their reaction is less important than that from a loved one.”

Though she wanted to ask about Alma, she figured that, had anything changed, he would have then mentioned Alma’s sudden acceptance of their life together. Instead, his silence gave her an answer. Leaning her head against his shoulder, she looked at the raised beds and wondered what he would grow next summer. Lingonberries, she knew that story already, but what else? Strawberries? She imagined him pruning leaves while wearing a baby in a sling, for by then they would have a baby. She only had six more months before everything would truly change, and the timeline, though she’d gone over it so many times already, only now started to make her uncomfortable. Surely, that wouldn’t be enough time to prepare.

“Jakob,” she said, trying to break his silence. He hummed in response; she wanted to hear his voice. “Tell me about gardening.”

And he started with the soil, for it all starts with the soil; if the soil isn’t nutritious and proper for the seeds, then no, you’ll never have a good plant. From there, you need to understand the seeds. You need to know them the way you know a close friend. What are their likes and dislikes? In hard times, what do they need most? And then, you need to know how to care for the sprouts over time, how too small a pot can lead to root rot, how a plant could be saved by simply giving it room to stretch out and breathe. He stole the lingonberries from Sweden, did he tell her that? Yes, it was a very heroic story, he was searched at the airport and the authorities made such a big deal, and he was very James Bond the whole time, asserting his right to take a plant from one country to another, it really was very suave and interesting and, should the girls tell her a different story about the same happening, that actually wasn’t Jakob himself, that was his brother Nils, and Nils was going to France, not the United Kingdom, and the laws are different there, so it wasn’t very James Bond at all. When he made a sandwich to take to work this morning, spread raspberry jam on toasted bread because that’s the proper way to make a sandwich, he thought of her, imagined Jean and Ola cooking raspberries in the kitchen together, and next summer, they’ll all pick raspberries together. Wasn’t that strange? How they hardly knew each other this past summer, but in the next one, they’ll be picking raspberries together. 

Pausing for a moment, he reached out, took her hands in his, rubbed to warm them both up. The night had grown dark; the girls would be asking about dinner. When she went home, she would have to face Otis again, and she winced at the prospect. She wished she couldn’t make the people who loved her angry. She wished she could go inside with Jakob and curl up in his warm bed and not think about anything that mattered.

“I have leftover pie, if you would like some,” he said, so when he kissed her goodbye, she was holding yet another one of his tupperwares, and once again, she would drive home with leftovers on the passenger’s seat. And she would return to a son that was angry with her. No, when she arrived home, he was up in his room listening to music, and she knew his slice of pie in the container would go untouched. She was hungry and not at all hungry in a way that made her wish Jakob would come and cook her something that would smell so good that her appetite would return in an instant. 

She ate dinner alone, a slice of pie straight out of the container, no need to dirty any dishes. Upstairs, Otis listened to The Clash and thumbed at the buttons on his Switch. She hoped he hadn’t heard her come in for the evening.

* * *

On Friday morning, Jean still ducked into her office and checked FaceBook when she knew Otis would be eating breakfast, a kind of awkward avoidance. They crowded each other in this too-big house. Though she thought that talking things through might help them both, she could see an anger in his eyes that they both knew he didn’t want to release, a contempt that he wished not to explain. He was angry for reasons she could understand, and silently, they both agreed that they would need space and time, though neither of them could define those two words. Sometimes, he came home from school and awkwardly excused himself when he found her on the couch, only for her to go upstairs to her bedroom as well, the television open when he otherwise would have put on a show. They had shared a quiet dinner the evening beforehand, not looking at each other, not making small talk, and she felt an awful pull toward _something,_ anything better than the disconcerting silence, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak up. She still couldn’t manage breakfast, so she sat in her office and checked FaceBook on her laptop instead.

One of the women from her book club, which was meeting that afternoon to talk about _Bad Feminist,_ had responded to her post, a chipper young thing with two daughters aged three and six, thankfully someone stylish. Didn’t want more children, could bring Jean certain things, thank goodness. Now, Jean would have exactly one pair of trousers, a pair of overalls, and a light blue wrap-top, along with whatever this woman could provide. Though she still puzzled through the next six months of laundry, she figured that things could be far worse. Shutting her computer, she headed into the kitchen, figured Otis would leave soon, but his toast was only half-touched, the coffee-cup still full. He looked up at her as if he’d been waiting.

“Mum,” he said, and she stilled as she realized that he no longer looked so angry, “do you think you could drive me to school today?”

For a moment, she couldn’t find words, but she managed, “Of course I can.”

“My bike’s really busted,” he said, a halfway excuse. Even if his bike had been in working condition, she thought, based on how he looked at her, that he would have asked her to drive him today anyway. “You have book club today, right?”

“I do.” He took a long gulp of his coffee, now lukewarm. “I can drop it off at the shop, if you’d like.”

“I would really appreciate that.”

“Just the one tire?”

He chewed on the last crusts of his toast. 

“And the handbrake is a little screwy,” he added.

He left his plate and mug in the sink; at the front door, she pulled on the shawl Jakob made her, wrapped it around her neck like a scarf and put on her coat and gloves. Where were her car keys? Still in her purse, she would have to remember to hang them on the hook by the door next time. When they headed out to the car, Otis wore his same red-and-blue jacket, too light given the weather but she wouldn’t scold him on that today. Even in winter, Remi had always been too warm. 

With Otis’ bike resting across the tucked-down back seats, Jean pulled out of their driveway and toward school, trying not to check the time in the process. Though she had an early client, she figured she could fit this short drive in, and if she had to be late, she doubted that the impact on the client would be anything close to what the impact on Otis would have been had she told him no. 

“Mum,” he said as she took a left at the one stoplight in town. She hated stoplights. She hated having to use her brakes at all. “I want to apologize for my...overreaction.”

She took a deep breath, dared not look at him, tried to focus on driving. 

“I don’t think it was an overreaction,” she managed, unsure if she was telling the truth.

“It was,” Otis said, nodding to himself. “I know it was.”

“I understand what a shock that kind of announcement is,” she said, being careful about which words she used, “and I think that your reaction was warranted.”

“It really wasn’t, Mum,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “I...asked why you didn’t use a condom. That’s a really weird thing to ask.”

“You were right,” she said, for he had been. “We weren’t properly using birth control at the time. You were correct.”

“Yeah, but what kind of person asks about that? I was...trying to feel in control, and I made an ass of myself in the process. I’m sorry.”

She tried to find something else to say, but she wasn’t sure what she could add, so she said, “Thank you for apologizing.”

“And…”

Sighing, he shifted in the passenger’s seat, and she could tell that he didn’t know how to express what he wanted to say in a kind manner. She knew he still wasn’t okay with the pregnancy, even if he was apologizing for his actions, and though she wished he didn’t hate her for this, at least he was trying to understand. At least he was trying.

“I’m not completely on board with this yet,” he said, weighing his words, “and it’s going to take me some time. But I don’t mean to be hostile, Mum. I’m just...overwhelmed. That’s all.”

She nodded, turned into the school parking lot. “It’s a big change.”

“I’ll come around eventually, I promise,” he said, “but if I’m not there yet, know that it’s not because I’m upset with you. I just...need time to adjust.”

In the parking lot, she found one of the closer spots and parked, leaving the car running. Though all of the other students were heading into school, the first bell about to ring, Otis stayed put, his backpack still at his feet.

“If you want to go to Sweden for Christmas,” he said, meeting her gaze, “then I want to go too.”

No, that was too much.

“Otis-”

“It’s not like we have anything else to do,” he said, laughing awkwardly. “And...it sounds kind of fun, I think. It might be good for all of us. If you want to go, then I’m okay with that.”

“You don’t have to be,” she said, meaning it. “I’m not even sure if _I'm_ comfortable with the prospect.”

"If you're in, then I'm in,” he gave, picking up his backpack and opening the car door, “See you later.”

“Okay,” she said right before he shut the door. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Mum.”

She watched as he walked toward the main building, as he caught up with Eric by the bike racks, and Eric was smiling, he had such a bright smile that seeing it made Jean smile too, and her son was okay. Still angry and uncomfortable, but okay. That was something.

* * *

Jean’s little friend had liked _Bad Feminist_ a lot.

“I think sometimes I end up seeing feminism as more of an identity than a movement,” she said across the room, the book club chairs set up in a circle. “And that’s bollocks, quite frankly. Even calling oneself _a feminist_ negates a bit of the movement, for feminism is an ideology, not a personality. But it’s better to call yourself a feminist than not, right?” 

She paged through her copy of the book, marked up with little sticky notes. Though Jean hardly knew this girl beyond a driving route and first name, she beamed at the girl anyway, proud as if this girl were her close, triumphant friend.

“It’s important to take a step back and realize where your faults are regarding your ideology,” the girl said, “but it’s important to remember too that being a bad feminist is far better than not being a feminist at all.”

After the discussion, there were pumpkin muffins to eat and hot cider in a carafe to drink, and as Jean poured herself a cup, she felt a tap on her shoulder, turned to find the perky woman from FaceBook staring her down. Dyed blonde, wearing athletic leggings that somehow made her look better dressed than all of the other women in this room, the woman smiled at Jean, pearly whites, all straight teeth. She looked like a model out of a magazine.

“Jean, right?” she said. “My name’s Annie. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Hello, Annie.” 

Jean shook the woman’s hand. 

“Before you head out,” Annie said, “I’ve got some clothes in my car, like you asked. They might be a little musty from storage, but they’re still quite chic. And don’t bother returning anything; I’ve been meaning to donate it all for years now and never got around to it.”

“Oh,” Jean said awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“Congratulations,” Annie said, tapping Jean’s shoulder twice before heading off to talk to someone else.

As Jean sipped her cider, there were other congratulations, a hug from Meredith, and it felt very civil, the most indifferent response she’d received so far, and after this too-long week, she was thankful for an indifferent reaction. She adored that no one else seemed invested in how her life was going. As usual, the girl from Moordale sheepishly came over to Jean and asked for a ride, and as usual, Jean said yes. They walked out of the library together, and in the parking lot, they found Annie surrounded by other women, all holding filled paper bags in their arms, and when someone in the group noticed Jean, they nodded to Annie, and Annie turned around, a bizarre kind of clique, all sets of eyes trained on Jean and Maeve.

“Is there a reason why they’re all staring at you?” Maeve asked Jean awkwardly.

Then, the clique followed Jean and Maeve over to the station wagon, and Annie’s palm was back on Jean’s shoulder again. 

“Turns out I wasn’t the only one!” Annie opened up the boot of Jean’s car on Jean’s behalf, then set down her paper bag filled with clothes where Otis’ bike tire had been an hour beforehand. “Guess you asked the right people. Don’t worry about returning anything, we're all happy to get rid of maternity clothes.”

One by one, the other women from the book club set down bags in the trunk of Jean’s car, and everyone added in a comment or two, a congratulations or a little story about their own children, ranging in age from two to fifteen, awkward childhood moments, old receiving blankets that would never be used again, bibs with the tags still on. Some apologized for wear on the clothes while others said they hadn’t bothered wearing something their mother-in-law bought them because it was a size too small, thanks a lot. Toward the end, one woman told Jean to write down the name of a certain company that made maternity-sized cashmere sweatpants, they were _divine,_ and they even fit after pregnancy, so they’re not a pointless investment. _Trust me,_ the woman said, _when you reach the third trimester in the winter, you’ll want something soft and warm and not tight at all._

And there were hugs, so many hugs. Why did everyone want to hug her? And now names were being exchanged, _do you have other children, is this your first?_ They asked if the father was in the picture, and while Maeve awkwardly stood alongside her, Jean pulled up the picture of her with Jakob at the French restaurant, and the other women called him _so hot,_ and she smiled in a way that felt so girlish. Was she in grade school again, talking about boys with her friends? By the time the last hugs and congratulations were given, her whole trunk was filled with bags of clothes and makeshift baby gifts, outgrown and sent to a better home. Even if most of the clothes in these bags didn’t fit, she figured she must be able to find another pair of trousers.

She shut the trunk of the car; Maeve climbed into the passenger’s seat. As Jean pulled out of the library’s parking lot, she felt as if she could hear Maeve thinking.

“Congratulations,” Maeve said awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Jean said, too elated from the strange donations she’d received to care about the awkwardness.

“You just have a son, right?” Maeve asked, trying to make polite conversation. Jean doubted Maeve would remember the answer.

“Yes,” Jean gave, “and my boyfriend has two daughters.”

“Big family.”

Jean hesitated, then said, “I hadn’t really thought of it that way yet.”

“That was really nice of them,” Maeve said, nodding. “Kind of scary at first, but nice in the end. I’ve never really...seen people come together like that.”

“Well,” Jean gave, “anyone who’s gone through this knows it’s not exactly pleasant. And I think everyone, deep down, hates maternity clothes.”

“Still,” Maeve said, “I wish that were more common. People being...nice.”

Jean huffed a laugh, gave, “People are nice often enough.”

“Yes, but not nice in a way that doesn’t benefit them directly,” Maeve said. “Not nice for the sake of being nice.”

It was edging toward seven in the evening, and though her conversation with Otis that morning had been civil and comfortable, Jean figured that Otis still would be silent at the dinner table, not really wanting to see her. They didn’t have much food in the fridge anyway. Though she knew little about Maeve, Jean could tell that this girl lived alone, that her parents weren’t in the picture for reasons that were best not discussed, and based on how vivaciously Maeve had discussed the book tonight, Jean figured that the girl would like to call today a _good day._ Jean could be nice for the sake of being nice.

“Feel free to tell me if I’ve overstepped a boundary,” Jean said, for she was good at doing just that, “but there’s an Indian restaurant twenty minutes away, and they do buffets every Friday night. Hot chai, the whole lot. I’m hungry if you’re hungry. My treat.”

Maeve laughed awkwardly, then realized that Jean meant the offer seriously.

“I mean, it’s kind of overstepping,” Maeve said, and Jean smiled, for that wasn’t an outright _no._

“There’s samosas,” Jean said, “and butter chicken would taste _so_ good on a cold day like today.”

For a moment, Maeve considered the offer, then gave in, said, “Fine.”

Smiling, Jean took a right at the next intersection. Tonight, she would have an appetite.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone gets weird about this i swear to god....

“No problem is universal,” Catherine said as she tore a piece of paper from her notebook, handed the paper to Jean, “but I do think it’s important to remember that we’re talking about a _Swedish vacation with your boyfriend_ , not, you know, a waterboarding.”

They’d made a pros and cons list together, at Jean’s recommendation. Now, Jean held Catherine’s notes in her hand, the page divided into two distinct side-by-side lists. Pro: I would like to meet his family before the baby comes. Con: Alma still hates me. Pro: I would love to spend Christmas in a beautiful place. Con: I don’t speak any Swedish at all. Pro: I can tell that Jakob really wants me to go even though he tries and fails to pretend he’s indifferent. Con: bringing my makeshift family’s anger into another family’s home isn’t a kind thing to do. Though Catherine had been a good sport for most of the session, and though Jean knew that she was making a mountain out of a molehill, she wished her answer could be easy and straightforward. No, she didn’t wish that at all, for the answer was obvious: she needed to go to Sweden and meet her boyfriend’s family because it was the right thing to do, even a thing that she wanted to do. But part of her wished that an outsider would tell her _you will make a big mistake if you go to Sweden for Christmas,_ for then she would either agree and listen or disagree and fight. She wished someone would challenge her, if only to see how she would react.

“May I make an observation?” Catherine asked as Jean read over the list.

Pro: I want to know more about Jakob and his family. Con: I fear that learning more about Jakob and his family will prove that I’ll never really be a part of that family.

“Alright,” Jean gave, looking up at Catherine. 

“There’s plenty of cons there,” Catherine said, “but I think the only one you’re truly worried about is the one regarding his daughter.”

Jean sighed, then looked down at the entry about Alma. Catherine was right.

“She doesn’t like me,” Jean gave, defeated. At this point, she doubted she would be able to change Alma’s mind at all. “I don’t want to ruin her trip.”

“What makes you think you’ll ruin it?”

“Because she doesn’t like me,” Jean said, nodding. “I mean, there’s the flight, for one thing. Three hours on a plane together. That’s a very confined space for quite a long time. And then, after that, it’s three hours on a train, replacing one confined space with another. And we’re all meant to stay in his parents’ home, and though it’s sizable, I know it can’t hold all of us comfortably, especially given that my boyfriend has to stop and count whenever I ask how many children one of his brothers has. So, I’ll be in cramped proximity to this teenager who _does not like me_ , right during one of the few holidays in which she can see her aunts and uncles and cousins, and-”

“But do you really think you have that much power over this girl?” Catherine asked. “If she’s got that many cousins, surely she can avoid you.”

Caught off-guard, Jean gave, “Yes, but-”

“You said she gave you her permission too,” Catherine said. 

“It wasn’t _really_ permission,” Jean said, shaking her head. “She said it would be _nice_ if I went with them to Sweden. And this was before we told our children about the pregnancy, not after. I know her feelings must have changed.”

“Have you asked her since then?”

“No, but I’ve asked my boyfriend.”

“And what did he say?”

Jean grimaced.

“He told me that she said she was still okay with it,” Jean gave, then held up a hand before Catherine could speak and added, “ _but_ I didn’t hear that myself, and I don’t know if she’s just complying to please her father.”

“So you have her permission,” Catherine gave, “but are choosing not to take it.”

Jean sighed, defeated.

“There’s no good outcome,” she said. “Either I’m sad, or I’m a homewrecker.”

“I really don’t think you could be a homewrecker,” Catherine said, “especially when the only person you’ve angered is fourteen and largely accepting of you.”

 _Largely accepting,_ what did that mean? That wasn’t therapist-speak, or if it was, then Jean was unaware of that turn of phrase. _Largely accepting,_ like how Otis would eat mushrooms but only if they were in a cream sauce. _Largely accepting,_ like how Jean felt about hot yoga.

“Ultimately, it’s your decision,” Catherine gave, “but if you’re looking for an outside opinion, then I would say that you’re within your right to choose either option and that you won’t face drastic consequences with either.”

Though Catherine was right, Jean felt as if she weren’t, a subcutaneous anxiety convincing her that this choice was gargantuan and monumental, a defining moment in her relationship with Jakob. But it would it be a defining moment, wouldn't it? If she said no, then her next opportunity to meet his family would be long after the baby was born, but she knew that this relationship had been so fast, so immediate, and that this step was a big one she ought to only take when she felt ready. But would she ever feel ready? Though she wanted to go home and not think about this anymore, she’d had the prospect of Sweden for Christmas follow her around as if it were her own personal thundercloud, raining incessantly on her and her alone. She wanted to make a decision if only so that she would never have to think about making a decision again.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her eyes stuck on her list, stuck on so many different ways to say the words she’d just spoken. Even the pros were based in fear, fear of being left out of a family, fear of being unwelcome, fear of being unloved. _I don’t understand why I struggle to admit such things to myself,_ she thought, but she knew exactly why, for her forehead had begun to sweat, and her hands felt shaky, and she couldn’t look at Catherine. She struggled to admit such things because admitting them hurt.

“I know,” Catherine said so casually, and in the end, maybe all of therapy could be reduced to a professional saying yes after a patient asked _am I right to be scared?_ And though Catherine had told Jean that this decision wasn’t as monumental as Jean had thought it to be, Catherine still looked at Jean and silently told her, _you’re allowed to be scared._

“Okay,” Jean gave, standing awkwardly. 

Her legs felt like a newborn foal’s. Out in the waiting room, her coat and shawl hung on a hook, and she was glad to wrap herself up in them, to head outside into the cold November weather and feel bundled up and warm. She started her car, put on the defrosters, sat for a moment, listened to the muffled sounds of the radio. Last night, they’d gotten snow, but there hadn’t been enough to stay for long, white patches covering green grass, the roads still wet. The sun had started to set when she headed into Catherine’s office, and now, she needed her headlights as she pulled out of the lot. Because she knew she would be passing by, she called in before therapy and ordered Thai food for pickup, duck pad thai and curries to share. The paper bags of food traveled home on her passenger’s seat; before she headed out of the restaurant’s lot, she hesitated, then turned on the seat heater in hope that it would keep the food warm. Against the front gate, Otis’s bike leaned and winced, a road bike unfit for cold weather though he refused to stop riding to school. As she carried the food inside, she almost longed for a snow day.

“Mum?” Otis called out from the living room as Jean set the food down on the kitchen table. He craned his neck, furrowed his brow at her. “What’s in there?”

She hadn’t told him about dinner because she already knew what he would order and figured he would like a surprise. Reaching into one bag, she pulled out a telltale container of duck pad thai and held it up for him to see, and his face lit up, thank goodness. Midway through therapy, she’d absentmindedly wondered if he would eat before she came home.

“This is a good and kind thing you’ve done,” Otis said, heading into the kitchen, finding them both silverware and plates. “I hope you know that this is a good and kind-”

“Be honest,” she said, setting the pad thai down on the table. “Are you really, truly okay with going to Sweden for the holidays?”

He furrowed his brow and laughed awkwardly.

“I told you already,” he gave, opening the pad thai container and dishing some out onto his plate. “Where’s the panang curry?”

“I’m serious,” Jean said, rifling through the bag to find the curry. “If you have any qualms, even ones you’re embarrassed about, I want you to voice them now.”

“I really don’t have any qualms,” Otis said, then took the curry container she held out for him. “I kind of just assumed we would be going.”

Jean stilled for a moment. “Oh.”

“Ola keeps telling me about her aunts and uncles,” Otis said, at first using his fork to put curry onto his plate and then shrugging off the gesture and pouring instead. “Her uncle Arvid has - get this - _ten kids._ ”

“What?” Jean said, genuinely surprised. 

Would all of the children be there for Christmas? How old was Arvid? How old were his kids? Would there be a baby in the house? Would that lessen the blow or make it worse? And Jakob had another brother, and a sister too. How many people would be packed into one house? 

“It’s true,” Otis gave, digging in to his meal. “This is so good.”

“Did Ola tell you anything else?”

“Her aunt rides a motorbike.”

Jean had seen pictures of Jakob’s sister, most of which were at least a decade old and involved some kind of inebriation during which Jakob did something spectacularly stupid. On Monday evening, Jakob stayed with her because the girls were both working on group projects with friends and then sleeping over, and he went through his camera roll on his phone and told stories that she doubted his sister Saga would remember the same way. In the first one, a blurry shot of the two of them doing shots in a smoky bar, Jakob claimed that he was defending Saga’s honor when he punched a man and then got a nose-breaking uppercut back, but even in the bar lighting, it was obvious that, of the two of them, Saga had bigger biceps.

“I’m not surprised by that,” Jean said, for she wasn’t.

“And her uncle Nils is married to some famous interior designer,” Otis said, nodding. “Apparently, they always come to Christmas together but never speak.”

“Never?”

“Well, not often.”

“Is it a language barrier, or-”

“No, they’re just really quiet. Like, Ola doesn’t even know where her uncle’s wife is from. At first, they thought she was Russian, but now, they’re thinking French.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Since Ola was little, I think.”

“Oh,” Jean said awkwardly. “Alright.”

“Anyway,” Otis gave, his focus turning back to his noodles, “I kind of just assumed we were going.”

“I would never have us go without your permission.” 

“I gave you my permission, Mum.”

Well, he _had_ given her his permission, as had all of the other children. 

“Right,” she said, resigned. “You did.”

“For a second there, I thought this,” he gestured to his meal, “was a bribe.”

Laughing, she shook her head, promised, “Not a bribe.”

For a while, they sat quietly together, both enjoying the food, noodles and coconut curry, extra rice because she knew Otis liked carbs on carbs, the two of them cast in the amber-colored light of her kitchen, the sun setting far too early. While she wasn’t looking, winter had come. Thankfully, the women from her book club had provided her with stylish clothes - as well as plenty of duds that went to the charity shop - and she’d had fun wearing the new things this week, chic maternity jumpsuits that had cost a fortune to buy new being paired with her boots and stretchier turtlenecks, wide-legged trousers that went well with slouchy sweaters. Though there had been an obvious and uncomfortable adjustment period, she could see that things were starting to be normal again. Sitting in the kitchen and eating Thai food with Otis, she could feel the two of them coming back together, just like old times.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or girl?” Otis asked, making her hand still, fork hovering above her plate.

It was the most obvious question, the question everyone thought to ask, a benign and inconsequential curiosity. On Monday evening, she’d thought about asking Jakob what he hoped they were having, but she’d been tired and worn out from the week beforehand and instead had been content to listen to him tell stories of his bar brawls. Maybe they should have talked about how to field questions with the kids, but then again, talking to Ola at the charity shop had been so easy. Otis had always been her blind spot.

“I don’t know yet,” Jean said, trying to meet his gaze, nodding once for confirmation. Though she knew he would have questions, she felt embarrassed to acknowledge the pregnancy at all. “But we’ll find out in a couple of weeks.”

“Are you hoping for one or the other?”

She shrugged, gave, “Not really.”

With Otis, she hadn’t had a preference, and now, she felt exactly the same way, but she wondered what Jakob thought. She wondered if Jakob wanted a boy to balance out his two girls, or maybe another girl because he already knew what evils girls were capable of.

“When are you due?” Otis asked, and she could tell that he was uncomfortable with the question, just as embarrassed as she was. _But at least we’re talking about it,_ she told herself. _I don’t care if it’s awkward, so long as we talk about it._

“May,” she gave, “but I’m scheduled for a cesarean at the end of April.”

He laughed halfheartedly, gave, “So either right as Alma is taking her GSCEs, or right as Ola and I are taking A-Levels.”

Grimacing, Jean said, “Yeah, exactly then.”

“It’s not, in the end, going to change _that_ much, right?”

She furrowed her brow, asked, “What do you mean?”

“We’re not going to, like, up and move somewhere else or something.”

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“And I'm not going to come home one day and suddenly the Nymans have moved in with us.”

“No, I promise,” she assured him, “but there _will_ be changes of some kind. A lot of things will still end up changing.”

“But it’s going to be a conversation of some kind,” he said. “It’s not going to be a cardinal decision from the adults or something.”

“No, not a cardinal decision.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Just making sure.”

She took a deep breath, managed, “I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“I know,” he gave, and she could hear sincerity in his voice. “And you didn’t _hurt_ me, Mum. It’s just...new. It’s different. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, and though she believed him, she wasn’t sure that she could internalize that belief, that knowing his feelings would make her own qualms go away.

“Thanks for cooking,” he said in jest.

And things were starting to go back to normal. 

* * *

“Before you say anything,” Jean said as Jakob picked up the phone for their nightly call, “I need to get something out of the way.”

He paused on the other end of the line, then laughed halfheartedly, said, “Okay.”

Outside, it had begun to snow, little flurries that wouldn’t last the night coming down. One pair of her winter flannel pajamas still fit, so she’d put those on, climbed into bed, turned the lights off so that she could pretend he was there with her. 

“And, well,” she said, backtracking, but that was why she’d wanted to tell him, why she’d insisted on speaking first; she’d feared that, if he told her about his day instead, she would never say what she needed to say. “If you’re looking to rescind, then know that I understand completely, and this is all subject to interpretation, and-”

“Jean,” he said, so she huffed, then took a deep breath.

“I talked it over with my son,” she said, “and we decided to accept your invitation.”

Would he understand what she meant? She should’ve been more concise. She should’ve said-

“Okay,” he said across the line, tone unreadable. 

Was he happy? Had he decided against inviting her and now didn’t know how to uninvite her? She should’ve put this off longer. No, she shouldn’t have put it off; instead, she should’ve said no and spent Christmas at home with her son, the two of them opening presents next to a dying jade plant. She should have-

“Want to book tickets tomorrow?” he asked, and to her surprise, he sounded excited.

So the next day, Jakob fanned out the passports on his coffee-table as if they were playing cards. Though Jean didn’t understand Swedish citizenship, she knew that each of the girls had a British and Swedish passport, the booklets matching in color but not crest. Because Jakob’s technological capabilities included ancient computers and a lot of cursing, Jean brought her laptop over, all five tickets to be booked at once, seats arranged accordingly. After a three-hour flight, they would have a three-hour train ride from Stockholm to Rattvik, and there, they would be picked up by Jakob’s sister and brought to the Nymans’ home on the lake. A lake! A lake in Sweden, on which they would spend Christmas. Why hadn’t she thought of the trip that way before? Maybe everyone would have a chance to go ice-skating, all thirteen children - she’d thankfully received confirmation that that was the final number, Nils and Saga not having any kids themselves but Arvid having enough to create a small army - lining up on the ice and stumbling through the steps. They would be staying for a full week, and because of Arvid’s many children, the immediate families would give gifts privately, Nils and his wife joining Arvid’s family while Saga joined Jakob’s. Jean was thankful that she wouldn’t have to gift things to ten children she’d never met, but still, she wasn’t sure what kind of gift Jakob’s sister would appreciate. _Beer,_ Jakob had told her, but Jean wasn’t so sure that beer would be respectful.

“I want an aisle seat,” Jakob said as Jean opened her laptop, pulled up the travel website he used. “My legs are too long. I hate the windows.”

“Well, I like windows,” she gave, their sides flush on the couch. 

He had soup in the slowcooker, bread cooling on the counter. Though Jean dreaded seeing Alma again, dinner smelled good enough that she could overlook her anxiety in favor of flavor.

“And your legs are very little,” he said, laughing softly alongside her, making her toes curl in her thick wool socks. Oh, she had it _bad_ for this man.

Jakob had done this trip plenty of times before, but Jean could tell that he would be reckless with a MacBook, so she kept the laptop on her lap, folded her legs on top of the couch, listened to his instructions. Five tickets, three minors. While she and Jakob would sit on the leftmost side of the plane, the kids would take three seats in the middle, Ola in between Alma and Otis because she could mediate. How many bags would they check? Apparently, Ola liked to pack light, had a kind of identity about it - Jean grinned at the thought, at how very Ola that was - so Ola wouldn’t need a checked bag. Would Otis need one? Yes, he would very much need one, Otis was an overpacker who would have started packing for this trip weeks ago had he known they would be going. Whether or not Jean needed a checked bag wasn’t a question, and Jakob knew better than to impede on a fourteen-year-old girl and her choices, so everyone would be checking a bag except for Ola. At least, Jean assumed, there would be overflow space in the bags of others in case Ola needed more room. Would there be food served? Nowadays, Jean went through half a box of granola bars every day, and the condom drawer in her office had become the condom-and-snacks drawer because she couldn’t be bothered to walk to the kitchen. How long would the flight be? Three hours, yes, three hours, and then they would take a train from Stockholm to where his parents lived. They would check four bags, and then, they would go to stay with his parents for a week. Arvid had ten children. There would be thirteen children in the house. 

Where would everyone sleep? She went to ask that question, but Jakob touched his finger to her trackpad, and she winced at the contact.

“Why are you clicking _purchase?_ ” she asked, astounded. 

He shrugged, said, “We’ve put in all of the information. It’s done.”

Aghast, she said, “No, it absolutely is not done.”

“What are we missing?” he asked, then smirked. “Do you have a secret identity, Jean?”

“No,” she huffed, “we just need to double-check.”

He looked up and down the page on her screen, then said, “It’s checked.”

“No, no, no,” she insisted, shaking her head. “We need to _really check._ ”

Then, she went line by line through the form, double-checking every passport number, making sure the seating arrangements were proper. Had she made sure that the children were all sitting together, and in a specific formation that fostered conversation? Was she in the window seat? Which side of the plane were they on? Yes, all in order. She went through a second time, checked the passport numbers again. Alongside her, Jakob looked bored, interested in anything other than the task at hand. 

“Okay,” Jean said, content with the results. “It all looks fine.”

“Great!” Jakob pressed the _purchase_ button. “It’s done. Wow.”

“Yeah,” Jean said, staring at the webpage that now listed just how many sleeps they had until they flew to Sweden. Why were there so few? Though it was November, she still felt as though Christmas ought to be far away. When would she need to start packing? Oh, goodness, should she have already started packing? “Yeah, it’s done.”

Had it really been that simple all along? Twenty minutes ago, Jakob had wanted to press the button, and since then, Jean hadn’t made any changes. All they’d needed were passports, a chance to fill out the forms, and a yes from Jean. Of course, the _yes_ took time, but she hadn’t needed much in order to make her decision. Otis, Ola, and even Alma approved; in the end, only Jean held herself back.

“This is actually happening,” she said, then grimaced, wishing she hadn’t spoken aloud, but Jakob laughed, a light little laugh, a laugh that made her heart feel warm. He wasn’t making fun of her; he was being overwhelmed - and happy too - with her.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and to her surprise, he reached out and hugged her, her laptop awkwardly stuck between them, his arms so big and warm, the wool of her sweater catching against the wool of hers. As he held her, she could feel his heartbeat, faster than usual. He was excited. He was really excited. And he was hugging her because his excitement had overflowed a little, and she was right there, so why not?

 _I’m not going to cry,_ she promised herself, but they’d both had hard weeks - more like a hard _month_ \- and maybe she ought to cry. Maybe she wanted to cry, and maybe she wanted to blame the hormones afterward so that she would seem poised despite her reaction. Closing her eyes, palms resting flat on his back, she hoped he wouldn’t let go, for then, she could find a way to control her emotions, blink away these tears before he leaned away from him. But instead, he pulled back, then gently shut her laptop, set it down on the coffee-table, and held her cheek in his hand as he kissed her. 

They were going to go to Sweden. She had actually agreed to go with him to Sweden. And so few sleeps from now, she and Otis would stand outside of their house while they waited for the Nymans to come by in the van and pick them up, a proper ride to the airport, a ride that would fit all of their luggage. And Ola would talk about packing light, something Jean would never be capable of, and Alma would probably wear her headphones the whole time, and Otis would freak out because they were only three hours early for their flight when _everyone_ knows that it’s best to be four hours early, just in case customs has a line, and, oh, goodness, there are dual citizens in this group. Oh no. Oh, this can’t be good. Does anyone know if citizens of the United Kingdom will struggle to get into Sweden? What if Jakob’s permanent resident card has expired? Oh, no, he probably would let it expire, and Otis would go nuts as he googled Swedish citizenship, then cursed because the article was, in fact, in Swedish. And Ola would tell him to calm down, and Alma would still be wearing her headphones, and Jakob wouldn’t know where he’d put his glasses in his carry-on luggage, so he would squint at their boarding passes and then direct them to the wrong gate. And then they would travel in their little pack to a different gate, finally the right one, and to pass the time, Jakob would start explaining Swedish things to Jean while the children looked bored. Ola would probably sit with her legs all scrunched up and read a book while Otis tapped his leg and wondered whether the plane would leave without him if he got up and went to the bathroom. And Jakob surely wouldn’t fit in an airplane seat, but he would act comfortable for her sake, then offer her snacks from his bag, should he be able to find some. He would be the first to fall asleep, and also the first to get them lost on a train platform after they landed. And, really, what Jean was most excited about was meeting his sister, the infamous Saga. She hadn’t imagined beyond that car ride, for she couldn’t picture a Swedish Christmas with Jakob’s family, not yet. But she wanted to picture it. She wanted to know.

He kissed her as if he loved her, and on a cold, dark day, there was nowhere else she wanted to be than on this couch with him, kissing him with a smile on her face, his body warm against hers, the future feeling safe. It was November now, late November, and she knew how she would spend Christmas. And her son had started to understand, and though she hadn’t seen so firsthand, she’d heard that Alma wanted to understand too. In a world of unknowns, at least she had a few knowns. And for Christmas, she would find some nice art supplies for Alma, and some funky socks for Ola, and...she would have to think a little longer about Otis. And for Jakob, she would give anything. She still needed to plan something, but she wanted to give him something important, something he would love, and she’d already figured out that a Staub pan would be too heavy to take in her luggage, so maybe the gift would be a bit delayed. But she wanted to give him everything. Her shawl hung with her coat by his front door, and she wanted to give him everything.

When he pulled away, she reached for his hand, not wanting to let go. He looked down, suddenly bashful, her big, sweet man. Was he blushing? Oh, she loved him. She loved him a lot.

She knew what she wanted, so she stood, tugged him toward the stairs. When he hesitated, she tugged harder, but he wasn’t trying to stop her; no, he’d looked over his shoulder, checked the clock on the slowcooker. They had time. They had plenty of time. The future looked beautiful, and they had plenty of time.


	12. Chapter 12

“Jean, I am starting to be a little worried.”

Jakob spooned her in bed, their clothes left on his floor, blankets pulled up high. Because he’d been working earlier, he’d left the house cool, so she snuggled up with him, wanting to stay warm.

“Why’s that?” she asked, trying to pretend she didn’t feel winded.

It was December now, and he’d insisted on helping her pick out snow tires, and, well, one thing had led to another. Or, rather, he’d helped her pick out snow tires two days ago, and yesterday, he wanted to bring her lunch, and one thing led to another. And today, she’d just wanted to have sex, so she called him, told him that, and he said _okay_ and met her at his place fifteen minutes later. Her therapist had told her that it was good to be honest, so she was honest with him. She had done everything right. She wasn't being ridiculous.

“This is five days in a row,” he said, laughing lightly behind her. “I am sore.”

Glancing back at him, she raised an eyebrow, asked, “Are you too old for this?”

He squeezed her, bit at her neck. No, he absolutely wasn’t too old for this.

“And I don’t think it’s been five days,” she gave. “Just three.”

“No, five.”

“When were the other two?”

“Saturday and Sunday.”

“Not Sunday.”

“Yes, Sunday,” he said, resting his forehead against her hair, “in the morning and again at night.”

Oh. Right. How had she forgotten? Oh, Sunday night…Sunday night had been a good time.

“Well,” she gave, leaving it at that.

“I think maybe we should take a day off.”

“So you can rest up?” she taunted, turning around to face him. “Rub out those sore muscles? Well, maybe not _rub out-_ ”

And he kissed her with a tenacity she’d started to expect from him, hardly novel anymore, and she laughed as he palmed her back, so gentle. He was _good_ in bed, properly good, the kind of good she’d missed over the years. So what if she felt a little insatiable? On Sunday night, he went down on her for _a whole hour._ She had every right to be insatiable. 

When she forced him up, their little midday retreat running long, he grunted, no, he wanted to stay in bed, and she smiled as she got dressed. Maybe she wasn’t the only insatiable one.

* * *

Two weeks into December, she went into the spare rooms upstairs, starting with the one that had once been her office. She still had Remi’s old desk, forsaken thing, the wood light and beaten from cheating she now knew about. Why had she kept that awful desk? She’d taken the time to bring the desk upstairs - a feat, given her size in comparison to the desk - but hadn’t gotten rid of the thing. Of course, now she couldn’t lift it, and she wanted the wretched thing gone, gone, gone. Off to the charity shop, sold for a whopping seven quid, exactly what her first marriage had been worth. No, that was giving Remi too much credit; her first marriage had been worth a million-dollar book deal, and her son as well. Maybe she’d kept the desk to remind herself of that, but back then, she’d been blind to how the desk didn’t represent the books or Otis but instead represented lies and deceit. This desk needed to go, and so did the spare chairs. Otherwise, the room sat empty, save for boxes of clothes she’d meant to donate long ago. If she put on a new coat of paint, swept the floors, washed the old curtains her mother had sewn, then this room could be a nursery. Yes, she liked it as a nursery, for the windows were big and looked out at the trees around her home, a little bit of the river sneaking into the frame. This room would be nice for a baby.

And she didn’t want to get ahead of herself, but there were two more rooms - she’d bought this house with a different life in mind - and she wanted to see those as well. The first had been intended for the second child she never had, so now, the room had boxes with her first book inside, the bookshelves Otis had had in his room before his vinyl collection needed a bigger place to live, the pots and pans from her mother’s home. Clothes had been one thing, but the pots and pans felt useful, impossible to get rid of, for surely she would lose her own, right? She could donate her mother’s clothes, but the pots and pans ought to stay, even though she hadn’t used them in the almost fifteen years since her mother had died. But the pots and pans should go up to the attic - or maybe Jakob would find treasures in those boxes - and she thought the bookshelves would be a nice addition to this room, up against one wall, right next to the sliding door of the closet. If she found a bedframe and mattress, she could turn this room into a home. She could make this room work.

Lastly, she went to the room she’d made up for her mother, her whole family under one roof. Back when they first moved in, Remi had been against her mother living with them, but of course he had, given what he’d been up to. Had her mother lived with them, Jean would’ve known about the cheating - or, at least, she would’ve stopped calling herself delusional - much earlier, so of course he’d been against. And she hesitated but then forced the door open, and the dark-wood bed still sat in its same place. She’d never taken down the wisteria-printed curtains. Her mother had wanted to live here, and she’d wanted her mother to live here too, so there was a dresser against the wall, a hanging mirror above it, an armoire alongside the window. Though the room felt stale and empty now, she’d once meant for it to be filled with life. 

And she hated looking at the curtains. Her mother had sewn those curtains with this exact room in mind. Her mother had meant to live here. Now, the lavender-colored walls, the empty armoire, the room felt cold and empty, but maybe she could try to fill this room with life again. Though she and Jakob didn’t intend to move in together - at least not yet, or at least not wholly, for he’d paid off his mortgage, and she doubted he would give up that house - she thought that the girls deserved a place to stay, should they need to stay here. And they would need to stay here come spring. She could imagine fragments of a season, Otis taking the station wagon and driving them all to school, Ola in the front seat and Alma in the back, and they would be driving away from Jakob and Jean, sitting together on the porch, a baby in someone’s arms, the day warm but the trees around her house shielding them from the sun. Maybe that was a bit idyllic - in reality, everyone would be exhausted and sick of each other - but she could see something coming together. She thought that, with enough twinkle lights and gold accents, Alma could spruce this room up. And when she’d driven Ola to work over the weekend, Ola had talked about trying to sleep in a hammock at night, something about extreme minimalism, a pre-university experiment. She liked the idea of being able to carry all of her important possessions - or, at least, her important possessions that would have to travel with her to university - in one bag. So maybe Ola would hang a hammock in the second room, the bookshelves filled with feminist theory and fantasy novels and comic books. And Jean already had baby clothes shoved into one of the drawers of her dresser, some hand-me-downs given to her by the women in her book club and others from shops she found while running her errands. Everything was so small, and so soft, and she couldn’t resist. She simply couldn’t resist. And, well, they would need baby clothes anyway, so she ought to buy whatever she saw and liked. She could imagine putting a dresser in the first spare room, filling the drawers with little baby clothes. She could imagine these rooms going from empty to full.

Her back hurt. She needed to sit down. At eighteen weeks, she _really_ felt pregnant. There had been a pocket of time in which the nausea abated and her only symptoms, so to speak, were incessant hunger, weight gain, and vaginal discharge that she studied with a scientific eye before remembering that, well, it was discharge in her underwear, maybe she should find her stain stick and let it go, but now, she felt pregnant, for her back ached all day, and she would spend half an hour trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. But last week, she’d felt the baby kick for the first time, and all of the sudden, she could ignore the backache, the tiredness, the constant hunger; instead, she sat quietly for a while, stuck in her office chair in between appointments, palm on her belly, wanting to say hello. Later that night, she’d called Jakob, so excited to share her news, and he’d asked if he could come over, please, could he come over? And she said yes, of course he could, and while Alma was at Girl Explorers, Ola at her new job, Jakob and Jean curled up on Jean’s couch and watched a movie, picking up the remote to pause whenever she felt a flutter. Outside, there was snow on the ground, and they would leave for Sweden before they knew it, and they shared a blanket - or, at least, Jakob had a little corner of the blanket Jean used - and there was nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company. And she was happy. She was really, wonderfully happy.

She heard a knock at the front door. What time was it? Checking her watch, she furrowed her brow; for once, Jakob was early. She rubbed her back as she headed downstairs, went to greet him at the door.

“Sorry,” she said, opening the door, ushering him in so that she wouldn’t let the warm air out of the house. “I’m running a bit behind, and you’re...early.”

Taking off his scarf and hat, his coat from that Swedish brand with a fox logo, the one she couldn’t pronounce the name of, he looked as if he wanted to stay a while. He wore a fisherman sweater in a dark gray heather, and jeans with a patch on the knees, and snowboots with fur around the cuffs. Only Jakob could make furry boots look hot. She wondered if he might want his Uggs back, but her feet sometimes swelled, and she _really_ didn’t want to return the shoes.

“On time is late,” he said, smiling widely, and she rolled her eyes.

“I can’t have you starting on that,” she said, shaking her head. “Seriously.”

“Has he started packing?” Jakob asked, taking off his boots.

“Not yet,” Jean gave, leaning against the wall. Her back really needed a break. “I think he’ll start maybe two nights before, and in an anxious frenzy.”

“Will you also start two nights before?”

“Goodness, no,” she said, shaking her head. “If I don’t start a week in advance, then I forget everything.”

“You and I have that in common,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, “except I don’t start a week in advance.”

He was early anyway, so she asked him if he wouldn’t mind looking at the spare rooms while she got the last of her things together. She wanted to know what color paint he would use on the first room, and also what furniture he thought would fit best in the second. Though she hadn’t told him that she intended for the second and third rooms to go to Ola and Alma, she hoped he would understand through some kind of thought-osmosis. She didn’t have the energy today to explain her vulnerable reasoning, and then again, how could she raise a child with someone who couldn’t read her mind?

Still in her work clothes, she looked for stretchy pants, the things she only wore on the couch or on more painful days. Thank goodness for the women in her book club; she had a turtleneck that stretched and matched one of her cardigans, and yoga pants that moved every which way. At least she could wear her own clothes this time. When she had the amnio done, she’d been forced to wear a gown, and Jakob hadn’t been allowed to stay with her during the procedure, so the anxieties she’d already felt had compounded. And though today she had the so-called _good appointment,_ she put on her thick, woolly cardigan and still felt nervous. She knew how pregnancies worked, knew what could go wrong, had counseled patients on things they’d had go wrong; she knew better than to get her hopes up, but unfortunately, Jakob didn’t. With the amnio, he’d been in good spirits, telling her that everything would be alright, quoting articles he’d looked up about the procedure, but still, she thought about the possible results and felt paralyzed. She already was in a high-risk demographic; she knew that things could go very wrong, but he seemed not to understand. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to make him understand, or if she wished she could be more like him and overlook the fearful outcomes.

She forced herself to think that this appointment would be a good one. The amnio came back with no signs of chromosomal abnormalities, so at least she knew one tiny thing about the child she carried, but there was still plenty of room for things to go wrong. And maybe today would be the day when her whole world crumbled. _Or maybe it won’t be,_ she forced herself to think. _Maybe you’ll leave this appointment feeling overjoyed._

Jakob knocked on her bedroom door, asked to come in, and she let him. He mentioned a light blue for the second room, maybe dark purple, that would be so nice. And the desk in the first room is heinous, what dreadful craftsmanship; she laughed, asked if he would help her take that to the charity shop sometime. He liked the third room, said it reminded him of Alma’s Pinterest boards, except in purple instead of pink.

“I have had my eyes on certain cribs,” he said, nodding. “I can take measurements.”

Yes, this was real, this was happening, and they would need a crib in that first room. And they would need to repaint the first room. She would need to buy linens, and find a dresser, and-

“We should get going,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. “Going to be late.”

Glancing down at her watch, she knew that that wasn’t true. What was with him today? The first time she’d had an appointment, he’d missed the whole thing because he’d been late. Maybe he felt as anxious as she did.

By the door, he laced her boots for her while she wrapped her shawl around her neck, zipped up one of his old coats because most of hers didn’t fit anymore. The van had snow tires, so they took his car instead of hers, making their way through what remained of the weekend’s snowstorm. Midway through December, the whole town was turning into a winter wonderland, Christmas lights hung on trees, decorations in shop windows. When she went to the bakery after therapy this week, she got a mint hot chocolate and two croissants - one for her and one for baby, or so she told herself - and sat at one of the high stools by the windows, watching flurries that wouldn’t stick come down while she was warm and cozy indoors. She’d already done her Christmas shopping, had even received in the mail a promotional vibrator that she knew she wouldn’t like but that Maureen would _adore_ , all of the people to whom she could give gifts checked off on her list. Though they didn’t bother with a tree, she and Otis had hung stockings over their woodstove, stockings her mother had made years ago. She liked this season as it was, but she liked even more that she had two spare girls and one handsome man to buy gifts for. She liked that she had reasons to celebrate.

“Just to make sure,” she said as he drove, “we both are comfortable knowing the sex of the baby.”

“Oh, very comfortable,” he gave. “Just something to know.”

“But if you don’t want to know, then that’s okay,” she said, almost insistent. “I’m comfortable either way. It’s all about what you want.”

“I say, why not?”

Jean wished he would acknowledge how unhelpful he was being.

“Okay,” she said, measuring her words carefully, “so we’ll learn the sex today.”

“My sister taught me about this,” he said. “We will learn the sex today, but we still may not know the truth. This test is just a little test. We will still have the mystery.”

She furrowed her brow, not really understanding what he meant. Maybe his sister worked in biology, but then again, Jean thought he’d said Saga was a mechanic, but he’d also joked once that Saga was the host on a ghost-hunting television show that had become very popular in Sweden, so she wasn’t entirely sure if she could trust the _mechanic_ answer.

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Yeah, okay.”

They pulled into the hospital’s lot, and she swallowed hard. This was the good appointment. She tried to focus on the good.

* * *

“Are you hungry?” he said, opening the car door for her, carrying their many little shopping bags in his opposite hand.

She smirked as he helped her into one of the deep seats of the van. She wondered how she would manage when they headed to the airport in two weeks.

“Of course I’m hungry,” she said, and he brought the bags to the back of the van, set each frilly little thing down there, right next to his tools. She’d spent far too much money at the first baby boutique they saw - thankfully, she knew he wouldn’t be able to find his wallet, for he somehow always forgot he kept it in his left pocket, so she whipped her credit card out in record time, not letting him cover the bill - but she felt as if she were now entitled to that ridiculous spending. And in the end, learning the baby’s sex hadn’t changed much; the girl working at the store had asked if Jean was expecting twins upon seeing both so-called _girl_ and _boy_ clothes in Jean’s shopping basket, then had grown confused when Jean said _no, just one._ And everything in that store had been expensive. Had baby clothes cost that much when Otis was born? At least she had the hand-me-downs the women in her book club had given her. The cuteness and smallness started to wear off when she imagined four onesies multiplied by fourteen days, a proper allotment for time to do laundry, at a boutique cost.

But, oh, the _prints._ She liked the onesies with sunflowers on them, and the ones with hearts, and the ones with little mustaches - she really liked the irony on that one. And the shop had had breast pumps, some Swiss brand, overpriced as could be, but even those didn’t dampen her spirits. They were going to have a boy, and though the word _boy_ felt impossibly vague - what did _boy_ even mean, in the end? - she’d learned something about the child she carried, the first real _something_ she’d been able to learn since she found out she was pregnant. And in the future, she would learn so many more things, whose arms he liked best to sleep in, whether he hated mashed carrots as much as Otis had, his favorite color, his favorite animal, his favorite school subject. The gender was irrelevant, but she wanted to know everything about this baby, every painful little detail of this child’s life, and she couldn’t hold back when given the opportunity to learn, even if that learning hardly meant much. She just wanted to know. 

“I’ll make you something,” Jakob said as he pulled out of the lot, started to drive her home.

And in the entryway, he untied her boots for her, then left his coat on a hook by the door, his keys in the righthand pocket. She would have to remind him that his keys were in the righthand pocket, for he always forgot. When he went into the kitchen, he turned the lights on, rubbed his hands together, opened the pantry in search of snacks. Though her supply had dwindled, she hadn’t felt like going out for groceries, the near-holiday lines driving her mad. Luckily, Jakob managed some crackers and jam, and cashews she’d sworn had gone missing. And it was never enough for him to simply put things on a plate and bring that plate to her while she sat at the kitchen table; no, he took a teaspoon and used it to artfully smear jam at the edge of the plate, then fanned out the crackers to look like a flower, the nuts left in a ramekin at the edge of the dish. When he presented the plate before her, she looked down and wondered when she’d become worthy of a snack like this, but then again, maybe he’d thought her worthy all along.

“What color do you want to paint the spare room?” he asked, heading back into the kitchen and filling a glass of water for her. Oh, sweet man.

“No idea,” she said, picking up a cracker and wincing as she dipped it into the jam. She hated ruining his presentation. “But nothing too bright. Something relaxing. A slate blue, maybe.”

“Not too prescriptive?”

She furrowed her brow, not understanding what he meant, but then, it hit her. Oh, right. They were having a boy. 

“I guess not,” she gave. “And yellow or green would be too brash. I want the whole room to be as calm as possible.”

“We could start a registry,” he said, setting a glass down in front of her, then sitting alongside her at the kitchen table. “I think my family would appreciate that.”

Though she hated the idea of asking his family for anything, she wanted to trust him. If he thought a registry was a good idea, then she agreed. 

“Ten more days until we fly out,” he said, and when she looked up at him, she could see that boyish light in his eyes. Though he tried his best not to show it, he was so excited.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile.

Though she also felt excited about traveling to Sweden for the holiday, she didn’t know what to expect when their makeshift family of five - well, five and a half - headed to the grand Nyman household. She didn’t know what their sleeping arrangements would be, or when she would be able to have a moment to herself, and she wondered if all of this would overwhelm Otis too, leave him as a little ball of anxiety. And _clothes,_ what clothes should she bring? Could she handle a Swedish winter? Jakob had shown her pictures of his beard frozen over while shoveling snow at his parents’ house. She owned exactly one pair of mittens, and there was a hole in the thumb, so how could she survive a week of Swedish winter?

“My sister is very excited to meet you,” Jakob said, nodding. 

Jean smirked, trying to shake the anxiety off.

“Does she not believe that I’m a sex therapist?”

“No, she believes you,” he said. “She has many questions.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Oh,” Jean said, laughing. “Right.”

“But she’s very excited to meet you,” he said. “And my sister-in-law read your book!”

No, that was bad. That was _really_ bad.

“Which one?” Jean asked, trying to stay calm.

“My brother Arvid’s wife,” Jakob said.

“No, I meant which book.”

“Her name is Karen.”

“Wait. Karen?”

“Yes,” he said, shrugging. “Karen. It is a very common name.”

“No, I know that,” she said. “I just didn’t realize it was Swedish.”

“It is,” he gave. “She read your first book.”

Oh, thank goodness.

“I didn’t think it was translated to Swedish,” she said.

“She read the English version, and a long time ago,” he said. “She recognized your name.”

“And your other sister-in-law,” Jean said. “My son said your daughter told him you don’t know anything about this woman.”

“She and Nils have been married for fifteen years.”

Surprised, Jean said, “I didn’t think Ola would lie about something like that.”

“Oh, she didn’t,” he said, then snuck in, took one of her crackers. “I thought her name was Sofia, but I got that wrong. Oops!”

“And you don’t know what nationality she is either.”

“I think she is Italian.”

“Ola said Russian or French.”

“Ola can be wrong sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Only sometimes.”

He motioned to her office.

“I can show a picture on your computer,” he said, and she nodded, gave him permission.

When he returned with her laptop, she typed the password, then let him pull up FaceBook. She hadn't logged out. Would he see something he shouldn’t? No, her only notification was an event invitation from Maureen, something about _hunks on ice._ Maybe she needed a show like that before she flew out to Sweden, a chance to watch scantily-clad men ice-skate. Oh, that sounded like fun.

He pulled up his own profile, then searched through until he found a posed picture, the whole family in one outdoor frame, a lake seen distantly in the background. Though Jean could pick out Saga as well as Jakob and his girls, the rest of the many people in the picture were strangers to her. Pointing at the image, Jakob started at the leftmost part of the picture, a very tall man with a very long beard beneath Jakob’s fingertip.

“This is my brother, Arvid,” he gave, then tracked his finger one person to the right, a woman only slightly shorter than Arvid and just as statuesque, “and this is his wife, Karen.”

Then, he went through the children one by one. First, there was Nils, and because of the age of this picture, Jakob added that now Nils worked as an investment banker in Stockholm, and Jakob wasn’t sure if Nils and his partner would stop by on Christmas. Then, there was Anders, who had recently begun his doctorate in mathematics, and next was Ebba, now in her third year of university and studying history, the only brunette in an otherwise hypnotically blonde family. Then, Lars and Lena, the twins, and they looked as if they were perpetually muddy, the playground troublemakers, and Wilma, who was Ola’s age, the two of them writing letters to each other in order to keep in contact and collect fun international stamps. Next up was Nils, and-

“Wait,” Jean said, “you already mentioned Nils.”

Jakob furrowed his brow, said, “I don’t think I did.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “The one who’s an investment banker.”

“Oh, no,” he gave, “that’s not this Nils. He’s the older Nils.”

“They gave two of their children the same name?”

“The older Nils goes by Johann,” Jakob gave, then tapped the younger Nils on the picture, “and this Nils goes by Klaus.”

“And you also have a brother named Nils.”

“Yes.”

“And he has a wife who isn’t named Sofia.”

“Yes.”

She would never remember all of this. She hoped no one would be insulted when she didn’t know their name.

“The very small one is Ingrid,” Jakob said, “and Jan and Maria were born after this picture was taken.”

“And that’s ten children in total.”

Jakob squinted, then counted the children in the picture, added two to that number; finally, he nodded, said, “Yes, ten children.”

“Plus our three.”

“Yes.”

“How is everyone going to fit in the house?”

“We will take the guest bedroom on the ground floor,” he said, “and Nils and his wife will take what was Nils’ and Arvid’s childhood bedroom, and Arvid and his wife will take what was Saga’s and my childhood bedroom. And Saga will take the downstairs couch.”

“What about the kids?”

He shrugged. “Arvid’s children are good at finding places to sleep.”

“No, I meant our children.”

“We’re in the guest bedroom on the ground floor,” he repeated.

“All five of us?”

“Where else would they go?”

She had to admit that he had a valid point.

“I promise it won’t be too loud,” he said, “or too crowded.”

“Okay,” she said, not believing him. “Great.”

“Should we pull up paint colors?”

She nodded, glad for a change in subject. Right now, she didn’t want to think about sharing a bedroom with Otis, and Ola too, and Alma, especially Alma.

They both liked slate grey, a bluish tone, not too prescriptive. Already, Jakob had had his eye on a certain crib, something sturdy and pediatrician-reviewed, very safe, and when he started a registry on her computer, sometimes patting the machine in an attempt to make it work faster, his choices were simple, even overly practical. Bibs, yes, bibs were a good idea, and winter clothes in a one-year size because they both knew better than to opt small, and a bulk package of breast milk storage bottles because Jean knew those would either go missing or end up piled in the kitchen sink in no time. Yes, they were going to be prepared. They would be so prepared. From the now-teenage children to their own ages to how baby monitors could even hook up to cell phones now, they knew they would be the most prepared two parents could ever be. Now, they had a full registry, and they’d picked a nursery paint color, and sometime in January, they would receive a crib in the mail, then curse themselves as they struggled to put it together, one screw always going missing. Yes, they would be prepared, and come April, there would be nothing left to do, except have a cesarean, and force the children to study for their school exams. Come April, everything would be okay.

“It’s getting late,” he said, looking toward the windows. “I should make you dinner.”

“That’s okay,” she said, and she closed her laptop, done with that for the day. The plate of crackers sat empty before them; he’d gotten up once to refill her glass with water. “Last night, Otis and I got takeaway. We have lots of leftovers.”

“Okay,” he said, rubbing her arm and then standing up, bringing the plate over to the sink. Whenever he came over, he always did her dishes, even if the stack in the sink had been there long before he arrived. In return, she made his bed, for otherwise he would wrestle with the fitted sheet, corners popping off, only two on the bed at a time. “I think Ola will get home from work soon.”

“Not sure where my son is, to be honest,” she gave as Jakob washed dishes. Luckily, only her breakfast plate and mug were left in there; he wasn’t making his way through a huge pile. “I ought to text him.”

“You should tell him to start packing,” Jakob said. “And to not give you socks for Christmas.”

Laughing, she shook her head, said, “I like those socks!”

“I can make you better socks.”

“Oh, can you?” she taunted. “Can you one-up the trouser socks my son gave me?”

“Of course I can,” he said, and she didn’t know if he realized she was joking. “Socks are not hard.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The house was warm, and though she had only met with two patients, gone to her appointment, and sat here with Jakob, she felt as if she’d accomplished a lot today. Now, she had a plan for what to do with the first spare room, the other two being left for another day. In lieu of wrapped gifts at Christmas, his family could order something off of their registry, taking off the pressure of fitting things into suitcases or figuring out how much to spend on a gift for a stranger. And she already had gifts wrapped up for Otis, Ola, and Alma. Jakob’s big one would remain in the box, for she couldn’t lift the thing, but she’d wrapped up something little for him as well, something that would easily fit in her suitcase. Now, all she needed to do was lean into the activities of the season, more mint hot chocolate at cafes and chances to bake gingerbread with Otis, and stay calm leading up to their departure date. And maybe go to Hunks on Ice with Maureen, for that sounded like fun.

She helped him put his coat on not because he needed help but because she wanted to. Of course, he forgot which pocket he’d put his car keys in, so she told him which one, fished in there and pulled the keys out. Because the temperature had dropped, he put on his knit mittens, about five sizes bigger than hers, and zipped his coat all the way up. She really liked how he looked in those fur-topped boots.

“I’ll call you before bed,” he said, then leaned down to kiss her.

Though they had never arranged for a specific time, they always called each other at night, and she’d fallen asleep more than once on the call. Of course, he poked fun at her about it, but she found his voice relaxing to listen to, especially his tired voice, a nighttime kind of quiet, huskier than usual. He would tell her about what the girls were up to, and then about what work he’d done that day, and she would tell him what she could about clients, nothing in-depth, nothing confidential, just that she’d had three today and found each of them interesting. Once, when she slept over at his house, he picked up his cell phone while they were in bed together, called her anyway, forced her to pick up so that he could say goodnight. Now, her phone log was a long list of times they’d called each other, the calls lasting half an hour or longer, all clustered around bedtime. She almost missed those calls when they slept together, for the anticipation she felt after dialing his number felt so warm, so exciting. She missed saying a tentative hello and wondering if he could hear her.

Once he was gone, car starting, headlights on, driving off through the packed-down snow, she took all of the boutique bags from by the door, headed upstairs. She ought to fold everything. No, she should wash first, then fold. Like a pair of amateurs, they’d only purchased newborn clothes, but as she sat on her bed, went through each of the bags, she loved how small everything was, how soft and little and covered in hearts or flowers or tiny dinosaurs. At eighteen weeks, the pregnancy felt real, disconcertingly real, and she relaxed as she touched these clothes, for she felt prepared. She could do this. Though she knew Alma still hated her, and though Jakob lived far away, and though she feared meeting his family at Christmas, at least she had enough baby clothes to last the first few weeks, and she had a plan to paint and furnish the spare room. She could handle this. She’d handled this once before, and back then, she hadn’t had a supportive partner. This time, she would be alright. In the spring, she and Jakob would take home a little baby boy, and she didn’t know the specifics yet, where they would live in the meantime, where their older children would stay, but she could count on putting a baby in these clothes. Another son, so now, she and Jakob would have two of each, an accidental family of four. Or maybe the scan had been wrong for whatever reason, and instead, they would have a girl. After the appointment, they’d talked about names in the car, and she’d told him that she wanted to name their baby after his sister should they find out that they were wrong about the gender, and he’d smiled and said he thought his sister would like that very much.

She had two ultrasound pictures now, one she unexpectedly received at the first scan and another from today, and looking at the scans side by side, one from twelve weeks and one from eighteen, she could see a difference she hadn’t expected. In the first one, she could see the outline of a child, but it looked a little like something in a science fiction film, a little bit of a blob. In contrast, the second one was unmistakably a baby, with little hands she could see in greyscale, and a nose and a face, and lips. Though she didn’t know what the numbers she’d seen on the screen during the scan had meant, she knew what a leg looked like, even in this format. She knew that what she saw was valuable, and real, and hers, something she felt at night because the baby liked to kick right as she started trying to fall asleep. She liked being able to put a face to a name, even in this way.

She heard the front door open downstairs, then wondered where Otis had been. Figuring she ought to go say hi, she left the pictures on her bed, headed downstairs. There, she found Otis and Eric at the front door, Eric hanging his wildly colorful scarf on the same hook Jakob had used for his coat.

Looking back at her, Eric said, “Can’t talk now, Jean. Smash updated, and _someone_ is a little desperate to play.”

“It’s a big deal!” Otis said, hanging his coat and rushing upstairs. Then, he stilled, and called down before racing to his bedroom, “Hi, Mum!”

“Hi!” she called back, laughing as Eric ran up the stairs, following in Otis’ footsteps.

She would have to ask in the morning about how the game went.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record, i love a good breakup and then coming back together plot. and if not then well this exists. let's stay calm queens

In Jean’s memories, December had always been a busy and overwhelming month, but when she ducked out of the storm and into the local library’s main entrance, that stress started to fade away. The librarians had hung twinkle lights all around the main display, flaunting picture books about holidays from all different cultures and shiny decorations in green and red. By the checkout desk, there was a decorated Christmas tree and a side table holding a menorah, and an old-fashioned train set had its tracks around both, the train off in order to keep quiet but the engine ready to go should someone press a button. Though she was late for book club already, she wanted to spend some time in here, look around, flip through a book or two, ask for a recommendation. After all, she would need to know about picture books come next Christmas. As she descended the stairs to the meeting room, she smiled softly, thinking of the few of Otis’s she’d kept, of how she could dust off the pages and read those aloud again.

And though she liked talking about books, tonight she didn’t really care for the conversation, and as everyone started chatting instead, she figured the others felt the same way. Now, everyone had plans, going to see family for the holidays, spending New Year’s with new partners, trying to get some shopping done at the last minute. When one of the other women asked Jean about holiday plans, Jean tried to make _going to Sweden with my boyfriend_ sound smaller than it was, but of course, that statement caused a ruckus. _Sweden?_ With her _boyfriend?_ And she didn’t bother explaining the _thirteen children_ part, or how she’d never met his family before, or how one of his daughters hated her, but still, the excitement of others sparked her own excitement. She was going to _Sweden_ with her _boyfriend_ for _Christmas_. Now, she could understand why Catherine had been so frustrated during their appointments in which Jean would say that it was too soon, that this was a bad idea, when she spoke about going to _Sweden_ with her _boyfriend._ Maybe she should bring back a present for Catherine. Would that be inappropriate? Yes, it absolutely would be inappropriate, but they were both professionals, right? No, professionalism didn’t cancel that out. But she ought to thank Catherine for never yelling at her that going to Sweden with one’s boyfriend was not, in fact, a bad thing.

At some point, Maeve had ducked out of the meeting, taking some of the Christmas cookies set out as a snack and heading out as the conversation turned away from the book they’d all read, so when Jean found the girl sitting in one of the chairs in the upstairs of the library and reading, Jean furrowed her brow, not sure why Maeve had stayed. The storm, maybe? Outside, the wind whipped at the trees, and though the snow was hard-packed enough not to gust, the weather had become frigid nonetheless, making the tip of Jean’s nose turn red. Jean figured the bus stopped here, but maybe, given the weather, the route had been tied up.

“Need a ride?” Jean asked, tone quiet. She felt a bit bad for interrupting the girl’s reading, but then again, if the bus was stuck somewhere, then Maeve would indefinitely be stuck here. And she’d given Maeve rides plenty of times.

Looking up, Maeve nodded, said, “That would be nice.”

“Weather’s awful,” Jean gave as the two of them headed for the front door. “Makes me want to hunker down and never leave the house again.”

“Hate paying for heating, though,” Maeve said, and then, they ducked out into the cold.

Though Jean had one coat of her own that still fit, Jakob had loaned her one of his parkas for the trip, given that nothing she owned would be warm enough for a Swedish December. She wasn’t sure how to pack for a winter vacation, let alone a frigid one, for her suitcase was big enough for her silk trousers but too small for snow pants, and what shoes should she wear? At least the boots she wore when she shoveled snow were big enough to fit multiple pairs of socks inside. They were ugly boots, but they were warm and wouldn’t mind swollen feet. Long underwear? Did she own any long underwear? Otis had some from the year he joined and then promptly quit the ski team, but Jean’s idea of outdoor sports was limited to luxury hotel hot tubs that were heated outside through the winter. Though she had sweaters to pack, she wondered if she might be stuck and freezing in middle-of-nowhere Sweden, asking Jakob’s sister and her big, muscular thighs if she had any compression leggings or other thermal clothing she’d grown out of because of her long sessions at the gym. 

Finally reaching the car, Jean unlocked the passenger’s door for Maeve, then ducked into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition, winced as her car took an extra moment to start its engine. But it started, thank goodness, the cold taking plenty but leaving her car battery unharmed, and Maeve shrugged into her jacket, seatbelt buckled, ready to head home. Wipers over the windshield, the dash fogging, defrosters on, this was winter beyond a doubt, and in two days, Jean would be heading off to a colder place for a warmer Christmas. She hoped Maeve had someone to spend the holiday with but wasn’t naive. Had she been staying home for the holidays, Jean would’ve mentioned Christmas dinner to Maeve, acted as if it was some big festivity filled with people, then listened to Maeve say no to the invitation and insisted on at least bringing a plate to where Maeve lived. That would’ve been nice.

Though the weather was frigid, the roads were thankfully clear, and Jean and Maeve kept quiet in the car as Jean drove, not wanting to talk about the holidays. This time of year magnified emotions, and after the week of clients Jean had had, she knew not to push Maeve, not to ask too many questions. When they pulled into the caravan park's drive, Jean shifted into park but asked Maeve to hold on a moment.

“Is something wrong?” Maeve asked as Jean reached into the backseat, found her purse.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Jean said, then pulled out a paper-wrapped package and handed it to Maeve. “Merry Christmas.”

Staring down at the package, Maeve looked stunned and a little uncomfortable, not sure what to make of this gift, brown paper wrapped with a red ribbon, book-sized because it precisely was a book, and one with a fifty quid note hidden between the pages.

“Plenty of people don’t celebrate Christmas,” Maeve said, not taking the package.

Pressing the package toward the girl, Jean said, “There’s something like fourteen religions that have big celebrations around this time of year. And I imagine there are other cultures too that celebrate. And the rest of us just want eggnog and a good time.”

Begrudgingly, Maeve took the package, even offered a soft, probably unintentional smile.

“I don’t have anything for you,” she said.

“I’m not looking for something in return,” Jean gave. “Just saw that and thought you might like it.”

At that, Maeve quirked a lip, though maybe she meant to smile in an ironic way that Jean saw through.

“Thanks,” Maeve said, then popped open the passenger’s door. “Happy holidays.”

“Happy holidays to you too,” Jean said, and then, Maeve shut the car door.

* * *

Because Jean’s plane ticket had flagged her as _medically compromised_ , the five of them had priority boarding. Standing in line to get onto the plane, Otis hummed with anxiety while Alma clutched a panda-shaped bolster pillow stuffed animal to her chest and wore headphones that looked like cat ears. Ola and Jakob talked back and forth, Jakob in Swedish and Ola in English - _no, Dad, I don’t think they will be serving lunch_ \- and Jakob held his own backpack as well as Jean’s purse because he refused to let her carry anything.

“We all have to touch the plane before we get on, okay?” Otis said, rallying his troops. “It’s not a superstition. It’s been scientifically studied.”

Alma rolled her eyes, then pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned the volume of her music up.

“And when we get on the plane,” Otis continued, “there are going to be emergency instructions on cards. I looked the cards up last night. They’re laminated and yellow. We all have to find the cards and read through them. It’s important that we know how to use our seats as flotation devices in case of a crash.”

Ola shook her head, said, “We’re not going to crash, Otis.”

Otis scrunched up his forehead, and Jean closed her eyes in annoyance. No, that was _not_ how to handle Otis and his pre-flight anxiety checklist.

“Ola,” Otis said, launching into his statistics, “plenty of pilots stay up for _many hours_ before a flight, some even working days-long shifts, and-”

“So do nurses,” Ola said, shrugging, “and doctors.”

Thankfully, the line moved before Otis could explode, and as they each headed into the plane, one by one they touched the same part of the exterior, the superstition taken care of. And then, they were off the ground, walking down the narrow aisle - either the aisles had been wider the last time Jean had been on a plane, or she was much more pregnant than she’d thought - and heading to their little area of seats, the kids seated in the center three seats and Jakob and Jean in a pair of seats to their left. First, Jakob put his backpack in the overhead bin, leaving Jean’s handbag on his seat, and then, he motioned for Ola to hand her pack over Otis’s head and to her father, forcing Otis to duck between them. Because Ola hadn’t checked a bag, she’d packed an entire backcountry pack for the trip, external frame and all, and though Jakob needed to punch the thing a little in order to make it fit in the bin, he finally managed to get the bag inside. Next, Jakob asked for Otis’s backpack, but Otis clung to the pack, hung over his chest because he feared theft in airports, and shook his head. No, he would _not_ be putting his bag in the overhead compartments, thank you very much. Do you know how many people die as a result of bags falling out of those overhead bins? It’s definitely more than zero. He swore it was more than zero. Next was Alma, and she dug around inside of her bag for a book, then handed her pink backpack to her father, who nudged the bag in next to her sister’s.

Once they were all seated, the plane filling with families traveling for the holiday, Jakob took a package of gum from his pocket, offered Jean a piece.

“My ears always pop,” he said, and she took a piece even though hers didn’t.

They were doing this. They were really doing this. And as always, the baby started to move as soon as she felt settled in, only getting rambunctious when she wanted to relax, but maybe she would still get some sleep on the flight. Once they got into Stockholm, they would stop for lunch, then head to the train station and go to Rättvik. Jakob had said that his sister and one of his brothers - the one without children - wouldn’t be at the house until tomorrow, so at least their first half-day with his family would be calm.

“I hate takeoff,” Jakob said, voice quiet.

Alma wasn’t going to turn her phone off until the absolute last second. Alongside her, Ola sat in a position that to Jean looked uncomfortable, and Otis shook his leg and clutched his inhaler, not liking takeoff either.

Reaching out, Jean held Jakob’s hand, and he smiled softly without meaning to.

* * *

When the seatbelt light turned off, Jean sighed in thanks, then unbuckled hers. Planes must’ve become smaller over the years, for she swore she wasn’t as big as the seats made her feel she was.

“Do you need the bathroom?” Jakob asked to her right, taking the aisle seat. “Or something to eat?”

Those same two questions had punctuated her day. First, the Nymans had picked Jean and Otis up at six-thirty, Jakob bringing foil-wrapped bagels made to everyone’s tastes as breakfast to be eaten on the ride to the airport. Did Jean need the bathroom again before they left? Was she still hungry? Did she need a snack? And then, traffic had been as standstill as they’d expected, forcing Otis to hum with anxiety in the backseat, but they still arrived at the airport with three hours to spare, checking in for their flight while Jakob pointed out a bathroom to Jean, then pulled a granola bar from his pocket and asked if she would like one. After they went through security, Jakob insisted on taking Jean’s handbag and carrying it as they walked to their gate, then asked if she needed the bathroom, and also, had she packed food in her purse? They made it to their gate with hours to spare, the five of them camping out in a corner of the seating area, and while Alma listened to music alone, Ola and Otis sat on the floor and played Smash, the Switch’s screen propped up on top of Ola’s mountaineering pack. Though Jean had tried reading while they waited, she kept losing her focus because of the airport loudspeaker announcements, and also because Jakob kept asking if she was hungry.

“Not hungry,” she gave, smiling tensely. “But, yes, the bathroom.”

She swore these seats had been made smaller, for though she’d reached twenty weeks, she’d _only_ reached twenty weeks. No, she wasn’t the problem here; these seats were small, and Jakob stuck one of his legs out in the aisle, the other extending beneath the seat in front of him, trying to get comfortable. And the plane was cold too, cold enough that her cashmere sweatpants and big cardigan were barely enough to keep her warm. She wished she could yank out the armrest between their seats and get him to wrap his arm around her, not because she wanted to be held but because he kept her warm.

Thankfully, the kids, sitting together in the center three seats of the plane, had relaxed into their next three hours, Alma playing on her phone while Otis and Ola balanced the Switch between two tray tables and did their best to keep quiet as they tried to kill each other in a video game. Though Jean found teenagers challenging, at least she was flying with almost-adults, unlike when she and Otis had traveled to America so that Otis could see his father, her son anxious for the whole flight because he feared flying and because he didn’t know how to feel about Remi, her little boy burrowing into her side and crying as she held a blanket over him, trying to comfort him, trying to keep him from being embarrassed. Maybe there would be a nice contrast between three teenagers and one baby, half of the family being uncommunicative while one member was very loudly communicative. At least most of the children could entertain themselves and go without supervision for a few hours. 

“Okay,” Jakob said, nodding, then unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, letting her go down the aisle.

And airplane bathrooms? Okay, these were _definitely_ smaller. Had she not carried in front, she wouldn’t have fit through the doorway. And she _really_ needed to pee. All morning, she’d tried not to be a bother, holding it through the security line so that Otis wouldn’t lose his mind, not going to the bathroom during the hour before boarding, but now, she needed to _pee,_ and she wadded her gum in a tissue and threw it away, and she washed her hands a little extra long just in case. Maybe a snack would be nice. Maybe several snacks would be nice. Come to think of it, maybe she _was_ hungry, and Jakob had his backpack stuffed under his seat, so she might score something good. Or, at least, something other than the seven granola bars in her purse.

Returning to her seat, she asked Jakob what he had, and he practically dove into his backpack. What did he have? Oh, he had homemade trail mix - he put in cranberry raisins, her favorite - and he had apple chips he’d made using his dehydrator, one of his favorite kitchen appliances, and some banana bread too, with chocolate chips and a little chai icing on top. Chai icing? When had he had time for this? 

“Wait,” she said, looking down at the foil wrappings in his pack. “How much banana bread did you bring?”

In response, he picked up the foil, then unwrapped a corner. He’d brought a whole loaf of banana bread. 

“A whole loaf,” she said incredulously. “Did you bring a cake knife too?”

And then he lifted out a cake knife and said, “Of course. How else would we cut it?” 

* * *

Ola looked all too smug as she went over to a cell phone kiosk, avoiding the luggage carousels. Five SIM cards, and then, they would all be able to use their cell phones here, and Jean had had to give the girl a credit card because no one had thought to order kroner from the bank. Kroner? Or was it _kroners?_ One krone, multiple kroners? No, not _kroners,_ that defeated the point, but-

“There!” 

Alma pointed to her suitcase - pink, of course, and standing out among the universally black bags - and Jakob went racing off toward the pink bag, almost running into someone else. Watching from next to Alma, Jean winced, wondering what would’ve happened had someone gotten in the way of Jakob retrieving Alma’s bag.

“If they lost our luggage,” Otis said alongside Jean, tapping his hands against his thighs, still humming with anxiety, “then we can call and report to-”

“They didn’t lose our luggage,” Alma said, then turned her phone on and back off again, unaccustomed to not being able to use the thing. She stood up on tiptoe, looking for Ola at the cell phone counter, but so far, no SIM cards. “Mine’s right there. We checked them all at the same time.”

“Well,” Otis said, ”airline employees are notoriously underpaid, and depending on whether or not there’s a union-”

“Didn’t you and my sister date?”

Otis stilled. No, this was _not_ the right topic. Jean kept her eyes trained on Jakob, hauling a little pink suitcase over to them. Though Alma had those lovely all-direction wheels on her suitcase, Jakob bear-hugged the thing nonetheless.

“Yes,” Otis said, swallowing his pride, trying to look unaffected.

“It’s just that, like,” Alma said, “you’re the most nervous person ever, and she’s talking about cell phones in another language. Like, you guys aren’t the same.”

“Thank you, Alma,” Otis said sarcastically enough that Jean knew he wasn’t hurt. “I will remember this positive review of my personality.”

Jakob left Alma’s suitcase in front of her, and when Jean’s came by, he lifted that one off too, the purple silk ribbon on the handle making it stand out. Otis’s had a brown checkered print that looked as if it had been popular in the 1970s, and because one wheel was broken, Otis dragged the thing off of the conveyor, whacking himself in the shin in the process. For his own luggage, Jakob had packed a duffel bag that was full to the brim and off-balance, so when he slung it over his shoulder, the bag tipped forward, almost tripping him. 

Ola returned with SIM cards, holding packages out for all of them.

“Thank _God_ ,” Alma said, then pulled off her marble phone case, ripped open a slot Jean hadn’t known about, and slipped the card in. “The group chat probably has so many messages.”

“You’re the most important person on earth,” Ola deadpanned, so Jakob swatted her shoulder, _be nice._

Because they hadn’t known when exactly their flight would arrive, they’d decided to buy tickets at the train station, Stockholm to Rättvik. But now, it was around lunchtime, so Ola took out her phone and called them an Uber. Jean had never taken an Uber before, but thankfully, the car fit all five of them plus luggage, and by the time they were dropped off downtown, Jean had decided to never take a regular taxi again. How convenient was it that Ola had called a car using an app on her phone? Apparently, teenage phone use had its benefits.

Luggage and all, they crawled into a cafe and sat by the windows, five people in one booth, three kids facing two adults. While Jakob went around the table asking for orders - a matcha latte and egg sandwich for Alma, a double shot with soy for Ola, chamomile tea for Otis - Jean stared out the window, brow furrowed. Were those...prams? Outside? In a big city? In the _winter?_ Yes, those were most certainly prams, and there were - her eyes bugged - there were _children_ inside of them. Done up in blankets and snowsuits, yes, but _children,_ out in the open, in a big city. Had someone abandoned their child? Looking around the cafe, she saw people taking off their coats, laughing with friends, speaking in words Jean could understand a little bit of after weeks of Swedish Duolingo on her phone, and no one seemed concerned for these children. Maybe she should say something, but what would she say? _Jag dricker kaffe,_ she knew that phrase, and technically, it was applicable, but it didn’t communicate what she meant to say. 

While Jakob went to the cafe’s counter to order, Ola made a phone call while Alma, to her left, played a cat game on her phone and Otis, to Ola’s right, drummed his fingers against the table.

“What if the trains are fully booked?” Otis asked Jean while the two girls ignored him. “It’s the holidays, after all. We should’ve booked in advance, tickets for one time and another set of tickets for two hours later. Then, we would’ve been covered.”

Still staring down at her phone, Alma extended her arm past her sister and covered Otis’s mouth with her palm.

“Much better,” she said.

In between them, Ola spoke quietly in Swedish. When their plane landed, Ola had told Jakob to make sure he called his family as soon as they had SIM cards, then had reminded him to call while they were in the Uber, but Jakob had made no such call, so Jean assumed Ola had taken on that responsibility. But Ola laughed a little too, so Jean figured she hadn’t her grandparents, maybe calling one of her uncles or her aunt instead.

Once they all had sandwiches and hot drinks in front of them, Ola picked up her avocado grilled cheese and said, “Dad, Aunt Saga’s in Stockholm. She wasn’t going to head north until tomorrow, but she’s done with work early, so she figured she would tag along.”

He furrowed his brow, asked, “Why didn’t she call me?”

“She did,” Ola said. “Like, five times.”

Jean nudged him under the table, “You turned your ringer off this morning.”

Taking his cracked cell phone out of his pocket, he found that, surely enough, the ringer had been off. He flicked the switch, then saw on his call log that, yes, Saga had in fact called five times.

“Anyway, she’ll meet us at the train station,” Ola said.

Jakob raised his eyebrows.

“Just her?” he asked.

That was enough to take Alma away from her cell phone.

“What about Uncle Saga?” Alma asked, the three Nymans leaning in closer to each other, Otis and Jean left in the peripheries.

“Uncle Saga?” Jean asked.

Ola tilted toward Jean, said, “Saga’s partner is also named Saga. Hence, Aunt Saga and Uncle Saga. But they broke up in October, and we were kind of hoping they would be back together by now.”

“No such luck,” Alma gave, brow creasing in sadness.

“They’ll return to each other,” Jakob said, leaning back against the seat of the booth. “It’s going to happen.”

“Two months is kind of a long time, Dad,” Ola said.

“Only to you teeangers.”

“How long had they been together?” Otis asked.

“Since I was a baby,” Alma chimed in, then deemed this conversation boring and went back to holding her sandwich in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

Turning to Jean, Jakob asked, “Should we book seven tickets anyway?”

“Why would we do that?” Jean said. 

“In case Saga shows up,” he said. Then, he corrected, “The other Saga.”

Jean shook her head, said, “I don’t think she’s going to show up.”

“But just in case.”

She smiled softly at the romance of it all but shook her head anyway. This would be a Christmas that Saga - both Sagas - spent alone.

And after Jean finished her sandwich, she looked out the window and saw that a woman leaving the cafe was going over to one of the prams and saying hello to one of the babies. Oh, her own baby. She babbled down at the baby, tickled its cheek, and that was a mother’s familiarity. Why had this woman left her child outside of a coffee shop? Why would anyone trust the passersby in such a way?

“Jakob,” Jean said quietly, trying to avoid the scrutiny of their own children. He hummed in response, so she asked, “Why are there prams outside?”

Still working on his sandwich, Jakob shrugged.

“That’s where they go,” he gave.

“Outside,” she said, trying to figure out if he was joking. “In the snow. In the biggest city in the country.”

“What, do you think they should come inside?”

“Well, yes. Of course I do.”

“But they’re in their prams,” he said. “They have blankets.”

“I wasn’t really worried about whether or not they were warm.”

“What worries you, then?”

“The people,” she said, as if that were obvious.

“What people?”

“The people on the street. The people in this city.”

“Why? Has anyone bothered the children?”

Well, no, but he was still wrong. She knew he was still wrong. But, wait. Hold on. No, no, no.

“Would _you_ do that?” she asked incredulously.

He shrugged, said, “In Sweden, yes. In the United Kingdom, they don’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

But he didn’t give an explanation, and she could understand _cultural difference,_ but no, no, absolutely not, they would _not_ leave their baby outside of a coffee shop. Absolutely not. No way. Why would he even think they would? No, no, no, absolutely not. Nope. No way.

“I can hear your thoughts,” Jakob said, laughing. “Don’t worry. Nothing you don’t like. But here, you will be the weird one.”

Luckily, she was accustomed to being the _weird one._

* * *

Jean hadn’t expected Jakob’s sister to be tall, as tall as he was, and even more muscular. She wore sports leggings that hugged her thick, muscular thighs, her shearling snowboots laced tight, wearing a ski sweater but no coat, hat, or gloves. Sitting in a train car, Jean still wore her coat, too cold to take it off, while Saga - and only one Saga - folded her legs on her train seat and shuffled a deck of cards. While Otis, Ola, Jean, and Jakob sat around one train table, Alma and Saga sat at another, ready to play a card game. They spoke Swedish so quickly, and the only word Jean could pick out was the word for _boy._

At least Saga had been welcoming, offering Jean a hug instead of a handshake, and apparently, Saga had heard all about Jean already. All about? Because Ola and Otis each had headphones in, Otis falling asleep in his aisle seat while Ola listened to music and stared out the train windows, Jean felt she could ask.

“What did you tell your sister about me?” she said, and because the seats didn’t have an armrest between them, Jakob had his arm around her, keeping her warm.

He laughed lightly, said, “Everything.”

“Everything?”

“When you told me you were pregnant,” he said, “and then you left very quickly, I didn’t know what to do, so I called my sister. And when you kissed me the first time, I called her.”

With that, Jean’s mind went uncomfortably blank. That early? After a first kiss? And the night she told him, and she had soup with his children, and she drove off right after she told him, and she didn’t know how he would react. That night felt so long ago, even though it had only been earlier this year. And he went inside and called his sister and told her about Jean. He told his sister everything.

“That early?” she asked, not sure what else she could say.

He shrugged, gave, “She understands me. She knows I can be an idiot sometimes.”

Uncomfortably, Jean shifted, asked quietly, “What does she think of me?”

Furrowing his brow, he said, “You don’t care what anyone thinks.”

Usually, she didn’t, but Saga was his sister, and Saga understood him. What if Saga understood something Jean didn’t? What if Saga disliked Jean?

“Yeah,” Jean gave, noncommittal. “Well.”

“She told me to be careful with my heart,” he said, “but she said I should give you another chance. And I’m glad I did.”

Alongside them, Saga and Alma erupted with laughter, Saga taking the whole pile of cards and seeming to gloat. She had long, blonde hair tied back in a braid, and thick eyebrows, and arms built for lifting. Jean wondered if the rest of Jakob’s family happened to be equally attractive.

“Don’t worry,” Jakob said. “She likes you.”

Jean leaned her head against his shoulder. By the time they arrived in Rättvik, dinner would be on the table, and she felt hungry and tired from the long day of traveling. Tonight, she would take seconds from dinner, and she would sleep well regardless of who else slept in the same room as her, and she would wake up to a great family breakfast, for if breakfasts with Jakob were similar to breakfasts with his family, then tomorrow’s breakfast would be fantastic. And Jakob had said that his family already had a tree set up in the living room, all decorated and lit, so this Christmas would look and feel like Christmas. When had she last had a lovely Christmas? Before her mother died, most likely. After her mother’s death, every Christmas had been an elaborate performance for her son, at first while Remi slacked and later while promising Otis that his father would be home for Christmas next year. But this year, she would have a lovely Christmas, and everything would be wonderful.

“Okay,” Jean said, then looked out the window. Beyond them in the dark, there was so much snow, and lights hung on distant houses. This Christmas would be wonderful.


End file.
